


Pensieve For Your Thoughts

by fencer_x



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers to Friends, Face-Fucking, H/D Erised 2019, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson is a Good Friend, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Snarky Draco Malfoy, Switching, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 12:00:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21814246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fencer_x/pseuds/fencer_x
Summary: Ostracised from the more discerning social circles after the war, Draco decides to spend his final few months at Hogwarts attempting to ingratiate himself with the Boy Wonder in the hopes he might be able to salvage his reputation in the doing. But when has anything involving Draco trying to be Potter’s friend gone right, really?
Relationships: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 49
Kudos: 585
Collections: H/D Erised 2019





	Pensieve For Your Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cami_soul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cami_soul/gifts).

> Dear cami_soul, I've been wanting to participate in Erised for a while now, since I love writing gift fic, but this was the first time I had the opportunity. You weren't shy about expressing your love for smutty fic with a hint of dubious consensuality and a heavy dose of misunderstanding, so hopefully you'll enjoy this bundle of citrusy joy, from my home to yours this holiday season! Thanks bunches to the mods for their organization efforts and inviting me to participate, as well as to my beta S and my Britpicker N!

In retrospect, he should _never _have trusted a book that came from Pansy.

“Well go on, darling, take it; it’s not going to _bite_,” she had said, pressing into his unwilling grasp The Book, with its handsome blue binding and gold-leaf inlay outlining a title Draco had not been able to for the life of him make out. “Did you want my help or not?”

He had. Or at least, he had at the time, which was eight or so hours ago by now. 

Though at eighteen years old—more than a decade of them spent in Pansy’s company—Draco _really _ought to have known better. Pansy wasn’t terribly devious, and she wasn’t _cruel_—not unless you really deserved it, and Draco had taken _great_ pains not to deserve her cruelty since Second Year—but she was a Slytherin. And Slytherins were funny creatures when you asked for their aid; ‘maliciously compliant’, Draco had heard his House described as once, and damned if it didn’t fit like a dragonhide glove.

So while there had been no real risk in asking for her advice, he ought to have practised a bit more wariness when she offered (out of the goodness of her coal-black heart, of course) to help Draco in whatever way she could. 

But with a grand total of four Slytherins—himself and Pansy accounting for a full half thereof—returning to the hallowed halls of Hogwarts, Hogwarts, hoggy-warty Hogwarts to complete their final year of education in peace, Draco was sorely lacking in other ports of call from which he might avail himself. Greg was a follower, not a leader, and Blaise was keeping his sterling reputation intact by giving as wide a berth as possible to his Housemates and instead ingratiating himself with the Ravenclaw returnees. 

With everyone else of note either dead, in prison, or having fled for the Continent or further abroad, Draco was therefore left with Pansy. Good ol’ Parkinson. The closest thing he’d ever had to a girlfriend (and thank the elder gods for _that_) and the only person in the castle, he remained convinced, who didn’t give a shit about the grotesque black blotch on his left forearm. “We’ve all of us got scars, darling; yours just happens to be a bit more obvious than others’, that’s all.” As if he’d only gone and gotten himself raked by another Hippogriff and not bowed his head and offered his services up freely to a psychotic megalomaniac who’d wound up running Draco’s family name into the ground. 

But the Dark Lord was dead—of this Draco was fairly certain, though he didn’t want to wager what little gold remained in his vaults on it—and so began the painstaking task of rebuilding. Rebuilding stonework, rebuilding societal structures. Rebuilding reputations. This last task was the one with which Draco had found himself particularly preoccupied. While the heroes of the Battle of Hogwarts poured themselves into repairing crumbling masonry and funding public works projects, Draco’s focus was a bit more myopic. 

With his father in prison, likely until the end of his days this go-round, and his mother having taken private apartments in Muggle London in an effort to avoid the eye of the wizarding press—the humanity!—Draco had made what he yet maintained was the sound decision to return to Hogwarts, head held high, to complete his education. If the Ministry had deemed him no threat to the wizarding populace at large, then they had no grounds on which to refuse his admittance, right? Of course right.

So—here he was. Sat in an open field under the bright gaze of a full moon, hunched over a merrily bubbling cauldron with a bluebell flame flickering weakly beneath as he carefully minced what he desperately hoped was a hair from the _head_ of one Harry Potter but feared, given its unusually curly and springy constitution, might actually be from his crotch.

_Definitely_ never should have trusted a book that came from Pansy. It was entirely possible she’d sent him out here on a lark and was snitching on him to Filch at that very moment because, rumour-monger that she was, he’d refused to tell her the precise reason he wanted a spell to make Harry Potter like him. She would only harangue him for it—or else pity him. Draco wasn’t sure which would be worse.

The field-sitting and (probably) pubic-hair-mincing could be put down to the aforementioned psychotic megalomaniac and the absolute fuck-up he’d made of the Malfoy name. The bottom of the social ladder was no place for anyone of good breeding, let alone Draco, and he intended to make his way back up, rung by rung, through any means necessary. After all: you needed to be able to hold your head up in public if you wanted to look down your nose at others, and nose-peeping was as fine a pastime as there ever had been. It would be an awful shame to never partake again.

Rung-rising, though, required one be granted access to the ladder in the first place, and no Malfoy—let alone a Malfoy with a Dark Mark on his arm—was going to be allowed within five feet of the ladder. Not without clinging to someone else’s coattails, at least.

So while it galled him and stung his ego something fierce, Draco swallowed his pride and steeled his will for what would be his most _arduous_ and _demanding _task yet: playing at being Harry Potter’s friend.

Now, here was the rub: one couldn’t just go up and _ask_ to be Potter’s friend these days—you had to practically make an appointment to speak with the newly anointed saviour. No, with his guard dogs of Granger and Weasley at his side, no one outside of the ‘Hogwarts Heroes’ would be easily granted access—and Draco? Oh, Draco was _right out_. 

He’d toyed for a bit with the idea of leaning into his image—playing the reformed Death Eater, perhaps even letting Potter corner him in a bathroom once more and hoping this time instead of drawing a wand on Draco he offered a cordial word for his efforts. 

But Draco couldn’t leave anything to chance, not with time ticking down as it was. Once they graduated and left these hallowed halls, he’d likely never cross paths with Potter again. He needed to get in good with Potter with _all_ speed if he wanted the holy light that shone from the golden git’s every orifice to banish the dark shadows that dogged Draco day and night. He needed to step into the world outside the castle walls as ‘Draco Malfoy, close friend and esteemed colleague of Harry Potter’ instead of ‘Draco Malfoy, juvenile delinquent and not very good at it’.

And he would do so, he sorely hoped, with the help of this frankly revolting potion that was finally beginning to come to a gurgling boil. He glanced up at the clouds—he couldn’t add the minced hair until the full moon’s light hit the potion’s surface, and it had been distressingly overcast all day. The weathervane atop Greenhouse 3, though, had informed him importantly that an easterly wind was certain to swoop in before midnight and rustle off the clouds. Draco supposed weathervanes would know all about wind and had decided to trust it—for it was either finish off the potion this evening or wait another month for the next full moon to try again. He was hoping to have one hand back on the ladder by Christmas, so tonight it would have to be.

A cool autumn breeze began to pick up, and Draco drew out his pocket watch. Nearly eleven—like clockwork, the easterly wind was rolling in. He slipped the stoppered phial into which he’d poured the minced hairs into the pocket of his robes. Couldn’t have them blowing away now; he’d had to skulk under a Notice-Me Not in the Eighth-year boys’ showers since five o’clock that morning to Summon one of the springy dark hairs left behind in the stall Potter had used (looking back, he really should have specified _Accio one of the hairs from Potter’s head_, just for his own peace of mind). It was not an activity he was keen to indulge in a second time.

He squatted down and fished out Pansy’s book, flipping through to the dog-eared page for a last-minute check of the instructions. He didn’t like not being able to read the damn thing with his own eyes, but he supposed he only had himself to blame; if he hadn’t written off Old Latin for Alchemy, he wouldn’t have had to rely on Pansy’s cursory translation of the spell’s instructions. But she’d done a decent-enough job parsing the text, it looked like, and it said, right there at the top of the weathered, yellowing page in Pansy’s slender, looping hand: _Spell For Companionship_.

He’d taken great pains to check the tome’s provenance, just to be sure he wasn’t going to get thumped for possessing it—but it wasn’t a banned book or any sort of Dark Magic as far as he’d been able to tell, which had been quite the relief. The last thing Draco needed _now_ was to get himself into even hotter water with the Ministry. It’d been difficult enough talking his way down to a summer of community service helping _Scourgify_ the floors and strip the walls of _his very own home_ after the Manor had been appropriated by the Ministry for war reparations. There’d been scuttlebutt about the building being repurposed as a museum in the future, with any profits going to support war orphans or some such nonsense. Grandfather Abraxus was probably doing loop-de-loops in the family mausoleum. 

No, he’d done all he could to ensure this spell went off without a hitch, and it was as the silver beams of the full moon finally peeked through the wispy cloud cover that Draco scrambled for the phial in his pocket, sprinkled the hairs generously into the bubbling cauldron, and began to cast with the very wand Harry Potter had returned to him but a handful of months prior. Fitting, he thought, for it to be used to such ends. If Potter hadn’t wanted Draco casting any spells of dubious legality, he ought to have left him to the pitiful stick the Ministry had been about to assign to him. As it was, this was really all _Potter’s_ fault, if things went sideways.

He Vanished the Bluebell Flame once he’d finished casting, heart racing as the runes he’d carved around the bowl’s rim glowed red for a full five seconds before fading away. The roiling metallic-grey potion in the bowl slowly calmed as the clouds moved in once more to block the moon’s beams, and Draco held his breath. Within moments of the last surface bubble popping, the metallic slurry began to give off a pleasantly musky aroma before—abruptly—turning clear as water. Draco glanced back to the book, running his finger over the text and mouthing the instructions to himself. The final line read, in Pansy’s script, _Place the bowl—contents intact—by your pillow as you sleep. Once the liquid has turned milky white or within one turn of the moon, the spell must be recast to enjoy continued effects_.

Well, that sounded simple enough—though Draco might have appreciated a bit more guidance as to what was meant to happen now. Like—when would the spell take effect? How far would Potter’s goodwill extend given the hostile relationship they’d shared thus far? Could he breakfast safely with the Gryffindors the next morning alongside a beaming Potter who would be only too eager to sing his praises and talk him up to anyone who’d listen? Not that Draco had the faintest desire to breakfast with the Gryffindors—it was merely a thought experiment. 

He supposed he could ask Pansy, but if she hadn’t turned him in to Filch by now, then that meant she was already in bed, her noxious beauty potions slathered onto her face and pug-nose buried in the latest racy Knut novel she’d ordered through Owl Post. No, he’d learn if the spell had worked—if he’d finally earn Potter’s companionship seven years after his initial attempt—in due course.

Carefully levitating the bowl of hair soup behind him, Draco slipped away, back to the castle, with a lighter step than he’d had in months.

He met with no one on his way back to the tower the Eighth-year students shared—no Filch, no Peeves, no house-elves even. Already, his fortunes were looking brighter, and Draco had to stop himself, really hold back, from swanning right into Potter’s room to get an early start on this friendship thing. Where should he start? _Oh_: could he possibly get Potter to lean on the Ministry and order the Manor turned back over to the Malfoy family? Surely not, surely! No, no—best to start small; he wouldn’t want anyone getting _too _curious about Potter’s sudden and inexplicable amicability towards Draco. Perhaps they would start by taking lunch together—not in the Great Hall but on neutral ground, like in the Common Room. Or flying—now there was something that might actually be enjoyable—though there was no telling how the spell might influence Potter’s capabilities on a broom. Draco wasn’t a _cheat_—he wanted to beat Potter fairly when they played Seeker’s games, not swipe the Snitch from under his nose simply because Potter felt magically compelled to let him. Draco did have standards. After a fashion.

He would sleep on it, he decided, and take Potter’s temperature in the morning. After a good night’s rest, he’d be fresh and ready to tackle his reformation with the unwitting aid of Harry Potter. 

The bowl followed Draco up the winding staircase to his room, down the hallway and two floors up from Potter’s own room. Before shutting the door behind himself, Draco strained his ear to catch any noises that sounded like boy saviours monologuing to their best mates about a newfound appreciation for fine Patrician features and haughty refinement, but the tower was quiet. With only a tiny twinge of disappointment, Draco guided the bowl over to his bedside table and settled it gently next to his wand stand. He peered inside—but it looked to him to be nothing more than a normal bowl of water. Utterly unremarkable. Pansy better not have duped him; he’d Charm her brassiere into bubbles the next time he saw her if it turned out she had.

He made quick work of his evening ablutions, climbing into his four-poster and dousing the lamps with an accomplished sigh. This would work. He would _make_ it work. He had no choice, really. He wouldn’t let his legacy be escaping Azkaban by virtue of his youth only to go into hiding as a pariah like his mother. He was meant for _so_ much more, he could feel it. A grand and exciting future awaited him—he only needed to get a foot on that damned ladder.

He closed his eyes and willed his feverishly racing mind to quiet and still, but he was entirely too worked up. His heart was pounding at a frantic clip, adrenaline flooding his veins, and sleep was quite the last thing on his mind just now. He wanted to go flying—or to duel someone, or to—

He bolted upright, blinking in the darkness. The silence…somehow sounded different. Blunted. Filled.

There was someone else in the room.

Draco blindly reached for his wand, resting on its stand, and whispered softly, “_Lumos_,” to bring the lamps back up.

And nearly pissed himself.

“Great _fuck_, Potter!” he gasped, clutching at his nightshirt and drawing his knees to his chest, for there at the foot of his four-poster—and clad in nothing but a faded pair of black boxer-briefs—stood Harry Potter. “How the fuck did you—” Draco shook his head, swallowing to force his heart, which had leapt into his throat, back down into his chest where it belonged. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You do realise whose room you’re in, don’t you? Are you _drunk_? Has Finnigan been brewing again in the out-of-order toilet?”

But Potter had nothing to say—only slowly and silently eased around to the side of Draco’s bed and took two deliberate steps closer. Draco scrambled back against his headboard, wand up in threat. “Another step, and so help me, I’ll jinx you. I won’t flay you open like you did me, because Merlin knows the Ministry would love the excuse to chuck me into Azkaban alongside my father, but I’ll defend myself. Don’t think I won’t.” The thought then occurred to him that, perhaps, Harry _did_ think he wouldn’t. Was the spell already active? This was rather forward for ‘companionship’, but perhaps using pubes instead of proper hair had made the spell come out funny. He kept his wand trained on Harry, regardless. “If you’ve got something you’d like to say to me, you can do so in the morning.”

Potter took another step forward, though, and now he was just at the head of the bed, staring intently at Draco with the flickering light from the lamps caught in his eyes. Where were his glasses? It was unnerving, seeing him without them—and Draco half-considered Summoning them, just for his own comfort, when Potter drew up a leg and shifted his weight to ease onto the mattress. 

With an undignified sputter, Draco barked out, “_F—Flipendo_!”

But Potter did not go tumbling head over end, as he ought to have. He didn’t even so much as _flinch_, and Draco looked to his wand in panic—the damn thing must still be loyal to Potter, refusing to cause him harm. Which meant Draco was quite defenceless against…whatever Potter was planning, for he was now wholly on the bed, knees sinking into the plush emerald quilting as he crawled (slinked, really) up to where Draco sat curled in a ball at the head.

“I—I wasn’t _cursing_ you. It wasn’t a nasty spell!” Draco pointed to the bowl on his bedside table. “I don’t even know what this thing’s _for_. I only meant—” He swallowed, drawing himself up. “It was only meant to engender affection. I wanted you to be _nicer_ to me, that’s all.” But Potter only stared, riveting Draco in place, and Draco muttered to himself, “…And clearly I’ve failed spectacularly on that point.”

Casting spells on other students without their permission was against school rules, but Potter didn’t seem inclined to report Draco to the Headmistress. A thorough drubbing would, Draco had to admit, probably be more satisfying to mete out than sitting idly by while Draco wrote lines or polished the contents of the trophy cases.

He could only hope Potter might spare his face, and dropping his wand, both hands raised in defeat, he squeezed his eyes shut to await his fate.

Which came in the form of Potter gently easing Draco’s drawn-up knees apart to slide between them, reaching out to cup Draco’s chin in both hands and slotting their lips together.

Draco’s eyes shot open, and he inhaled sharply, which prompted Potter to press his advantage. His tongue darted out to trace the seam of Draco’s lips, drawing the bottom lip between his teeth and nibbling softly. Potter was too close now for Draco to angle his legs to get a good kick in, but he still had fists with which to do some damage.

But when he swung wildly to clock Potter across the jaw, Potter snapped his hand out and caught him by the wrist—then drew it close and suckled just at the pulse point, leaving behind a bright red mark on Draco’s pasty skin. He made a startled, strangled noise, but Potter was undeterred, pressing a soft kiss to Draco’s open palm and then laving his tongue along a finger, pausing at the tip, and taking it fully in his mouth.

“Oh—_balls_, Potter, what in the name of all—” Draco seized when Potter sucked—hard—on his finger, squeezing his thighs together because this was absolutely _absurd_. He was not sitting here, letting a decidedly spell-addled Potter fellate his fingers, and _getting off on it_.With his free hand, he tried to shove Potter away, but either he was weaker than he imagined, or Potter was stronger (or, perhaps most unsettling: Draco wasn’t trying quite as hard as he thought), for Potter would not be budged.

Instead, he drew up off Draco’s finger with a smacking release, then moved back into Draco’s personal space looking—he suspected—for another kiss. 

“No—no, I think that’s _quite_ enough, Potter—” Draco twisted his head to the side, away from Potter’s searching lips. “Merlin’s _balls_ I’ve fucked something up—_mmf._” Potter took him by the chin, guiding him back around to nuzzle noses before cutting off Draco’s babbling protests bodily. And Draco _wanted_ to put up more of a fight, truly he did, but several prominent bits of himself were beginning to move past the revulsion that came from knowing who was doing this to him and coming around to the idea that, if things kept up like this, a good time might be had all around. Bits like his prick. And his bollocks. And a little bit his arsehole.

And Draco couldn’t blame them, really he couldn’t—they’d none of them gotten much of a workout in the past year, or the year before that even. It was only: it was difficult to get it up when the Dark Lord was stalking the halls right outside your bedroom door. And _fuck_, but Potter had to be good at _everything_, didn’t he? He just had to. Couldn’t be the clumsy virgin, no—he either had natural talent, or he’d done this a _few_ times. Which made Draco wonder: what _had _he gotten up to with Granger and Weasley all those months on the run over the past year?

Potter was shifting closer now, though, angling his weight to try and urge Draco down and onto his back—and that wasn’t a good sign. At least, not in this case. Snogging (_being_ snogged, Draco maintained) was one thing, but anything further…anything further…

Potter’s questing fingers were playing at the hem of his nightshirt now, slipping under to trace the jutting curve of Draco’s hip and then his ribs—with a cheeky nipple tweak. Draco gasped into Potter’s mouth, swallowing his driving tongue and groaning in conflicted torture. This was ever so much more than he’d meant to bewitch Potter into doing—and as soon as Potter came to his senses, there would be hell to pay, of that there could be no mistake. 

But then Potter shifted again, straddling one of Draco’s thighs, and the swell of his cock and balls through his soft cotton boxer-briefs was suddenly pressed against Draco as a warm, heavy weight. Draco’s hands came scrabbling up, grabbing Potter by the neck to draw him impossibly closer as Draco, shamefully, at last indulged wholly. Potter rocked against him, growing ridiculously hard with a quickness that suggested he’d not need much coaxing before he dirtied his pants. Not so perfect after all, then.

And as if he’d actually _heard _the uncharitable thought, Potter slipped a hand between them and gripped Draco through his own pants, giving a generous pump that had Draco’s hips snapping up with bone-jolting force. “F—_uck_, Potter,” he breathed against Potter’s lips, exhaling shakily. “A bit of warning would have been appreciated.” Potter only stared at him, brows quirking in playful threat as if to say _Well, consider yourself warned_.

Draco thought, then, about reaching down and touching Potter as well. About sliding a finger under the hem of those boxer-briefs, reaching inside, and getting a handful of what felt like a prick of appreciable proportion. But there was something…_untouchable_ about Potter. Something just out of reach. Which sounded ludicrous, considering Potter was presently palming him like a well-oiled broomstick, but the feeling remained. 

He wished Potter would just _speak_. Curse him, taunt him, whisper the filthiest nothings imaginable into Draco’s ear—_anything_. But he only silently laid kisses against Draco’s cheek, jaw, neck, working his way down until nightclothes had him heading back up again. Draco debated pulling his shirt off—and his pants—but that would be inviting too much, and Draco didn’t want to be sat here, everything on display, when Potter’s head cleared and he called down hell.

_Easily solved by removing yourself from the room_, an insidious little voice reminded. He didn’t need to be here; sure, his wand wasn’t listening, but that wasn’t stopping him from shoving Potter off and marching out the door. 

Yet, here he was. Not shoving Potter off. Not marching out the door.

Because he was a weak, stupid little boy who never thought with the right head—and why start now? He hadn’t _quite_ hit rock bottom, had he? No, the smart thing to do would be to ensure he was at the very lowest point in his life before he picked himself up. Once you were at the bottom, there was nowhere left to go but up—wasn’t that what they said? So he might as well saunter down those last few steps, enjoy his time in the mud, and _then_ work his way back up.

Draco jerked his hips, rolling into Potter’s grip and fucking himself raw when he found just the right angle. He looped his arms around Potter’s neck, holding him close, and claimed his lips with abandon. “Grip me proper, you prig—I know you know how to handle a cock.” And Potter, to his utter delight, plunged his hand into Draco’s pants, grabbing his shaft and working him over but good. 

Draco brought the leg Potter was not rutting upon around to bracket him in place and released a long, stuttering groan. He hadn’t been touched by any hand but his own in he couldn’t recall _how_ long, and Potter’s touch was enough to make him worry he’d never be satisfied with self-pleasure again. Potter’s hand flew over Draco’s cock with preternatural speed, hotter and tighter than Draco had thought possible, and his nerves were firing like lightning bolts. He couldn’t concentrate on kissing, couldn’t concentrate on touching, couldn’t concentrate on _anything_ but Potter’s fingers and the exquisite way in which they were handling Draco’s prick. He could feel his bollocks drawing up tight at the base, and he despaired. He wanted to _last_, wanted _this_ to last—he hadn’t drunk his fill of pleasure yet, and if this was going to be a one-off, he wanted to _really_ enjoy it.

So he tried to hold back, squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head—he thought about the Dark Lord, about his mother, about Weasley and Granger making little Weasley-Grangers, anything to keep from popping. But Potter was skilled enough to make Draco’s mind go blank, seeking out his lips and drawing him into another insistent, frantic series of kisses that ratcheted up in intensity as Draco’s orgasm bore down upon them. 

Potter’s hand froze, just at the moment of climax, and Draco gave a keening cry of release. He snapped his hips up once—twice—three times, holding with tight, tense muscles as he spilled in great globules over Potter’s fingers. He continued to spurt, trembling, and Potter gently milked him until he had no more to give. Draco slumped back against his mountain of pillows, staring up at the chandelier rotating slowly overhead, as he waited for the room to stop spinning. It was quite the most satisfying pull he’d had in as long as he could remember, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go again or never have his cock touched for the rest of his life. It was a bit of both right at the moment, in all honesty.

He belatedly remembered that Potter, strapping young wizard that he was, might wish to get off as well, and though Draco was still dealing with that ridiculous hangup about touching Potter’s cock, he could at least offer a thigh to rub against—or perhaps Potter would let Draco watch while he pulled himself off. That sounded splendid, actually, the longer Draco considered it.

He lifted up onto his elbows, staring blearily over his stomach at Potter kneeling between his legs—and his cock gave an appreciative twitch as Potter reached down and waved a hand over his boxer-briefs, Vanishing them wordlessly and wandlessly.

“…Holy _fuck_,” Draco murmured, not sure if he was more impressed with the magic or turned on by the casual display of prowess. A bit of both again, probably.

He had no time to marvel, though, for Potter then waved the same hand over Draco’s hips—and Vanished _his_ pants as well, shifting closer on his knees and slicking his fingers up with the sticky white mess Draco had left. Panic tapped at the back of Draco’s mind through the post-orgasmic haze, but Draco only spread his legs wider, angling his hips up and watching Potter work with a distant curiosity. This was absurd—so absurd he wondered if it was actually happening. Except it had to be, for when Potter began poking about, working him open and sliding those fingers in, and out, it _burned_, it stretched and ached and felt fucking _fantastic_.

Draco pounded the mattress, squirming and bucking his hips. “Just—fucking _do it_ if you’re going to. Stop dicking around.” Potter grabbed his hips and held him firmly in place for that, frowning, and Draco snarled, “Fuck me, or I’ll do it _myself_.” He braced one foot against Potter’s shoulder in threat, ready to throw him over and take his seat.

And Potter, quiet as ever, carefully removed Draco’s foot from his shoulder, placing it back on the bed, and gave himself a few meaningful pumps as if to say _Patience is a virtue_. Well Draco wasn’t feeling particularly virtuous, considering he was fairly certain this entire encounter could be put down to something having gone spectacularly wrong with Draco’s spell. So if he’d already fucked _himself_ over, he might as well get Potter in on the fucking as well and call it even.

Potter leaned over him, one hand braced on the bed next to Draco’s head, and the other cradling his shaft. His features were scrunched up as he lined himself up, and Draco held his breath, forcing himself to stay relaxed. Potter caught him watching, then leaned down, head cocked to the side, and placed his lips over Draco’s—just touching at first, then a faint bit of pressure as he coaxed Draco into response. 

And Draco _did_. He kissed back, really just _kissed_—not to arouse or to stake dominance, just to enjoy the sensation and the closeness of doing this, even if it was (_especially_ if it was) with Potter. Because Potter was kissing him like this mattered, like he was actually invested in the moment, and when he shifted his hips and nosed in, Draco foolishly let himself imagine he knew exactly what he was doing, who he was doing it with. Because there’d been a time when he hadn’t wanted to be Potter’s friend just to get ahead but to _be Potter’s friend_, and this, right here—Potter fucking him so sweetly and so slowly and so thoroughly—might have been something they did. As a lark. As more than a lark. 

But Potter wasn’t his friend—or a ‘companion’—since Draco had obviously fucked up the spell, so he knew not to get attached, because one way or another this was all going to go pear-shaped eventually. Eventually.

But not just yet. 

Draco wrapped his legs around Potter’s hips, drawing him closer, and kissed Potter—just this once—like it meant something to Draco too.

❖❖❖

When Draco awoke the next morning, wand buzzing insistently from where it had rolled under the bed after he’d dropped it, Potter was gone. He struggled to recall when Potter had left, though the unrumpled bedsheets suggested, at the very least, he hadn’t stayed over. And that suited Draco fine; perhaps the orgasm had brought Potter back to his senses, and he’d slinked back to his own room in furious shame. Draco was prepared to be met with Ministry officials when he opened his door, uniform and a fresh set of pants draped over one arm, but the hall was empty of all but the usual suspects, running from rooms to showers and back again as they prepared to face the day. No one looked at him askance or muttered more than the usual nasty remarks behind his back, so at the very least, Potter had not _publicly_ proclaimed his honour violated. A silver lining, at last.

Draco forced himself to walk into the Great Hall with his head held high as if nothing were amiss, not glancing once in the direction of the Gryffindor Table, and when Pansy asked him why he was ‘sitting funny’, Draco politely ignored her and buried his nose in the morning edition of the _Prophet_. Broomstick stocks were up—everyone was investing in a set for the whole family, just in case there came a time again when a quick getaway was needed. The Ministry was under pressure to lift restrictions on enchanting Muggle artefacts, and Cleansweep was reportedly already holding talks with Muggle automobile manufacturers. The zeitgeist clamored _escape_, and Draco could not blame it. He was wishing he was somewhere else right about now himself.

“_So_? Did it work?” Pansy prodded, scooting so close she was practically in his lap.

“Did what work?” Draco sighed, setting aside the _Prophet_ and digging in to the breakfast spread. He was famished, to his great shock; he usually skipped breakfast, or partook sparingly. Potter was already disrupting his routine. 

“Don’t ‘did what work’ me. The _spell_.” 

At least she had the good sense to keep her voice down. “I didn’t cast it.”

“Bull_shit_ you didn’t. It worked, didn’t it? Got him out of your system, then?”

“If you don’t leave me to my breakfast in peace, I’m going to tip my coffee into your lap.”

Pansy gave an offended harumph and gathered her things. “Guess you didn’t get him out of your system after all.”

Draco didn’t bother parsing her cryptic needling—it was enough she left him alone. He followed her with his eyes as she stalked from the Great Hall—and then, quite unconsciously, let his gaze slide over to the Gryffindor table.

Potter was in his usual seat, smack in the middle of Granger and Weasley, and they were all three listening raptly to Finnigan as he regaled them with some animated tale. They laughed, chatted amongst themselves, stuffed their faces—and not once did Potter so much as blink in Draco’s general direction. It was as normal a breakfast as Draco had ever enjoyed at Hogwarts, which was utterly baffling.

Potter was not one for subterfuge, in Draco’s experience. He was an absolutely appalling liar unless Granger was feeding him quotes and generally wore his heart on his sleeve. Yet there he sat, hunkered over his porridge like a dog expecting its bowl to be snatched away at any moment, as if he hadn’t only a handful of hours ago been sunk balls-deep in Draco’s arse. Potter wasn’t nearly enough of a slag he could treat such an encounter _that_ casually—Sixth Year he’d been _insufferable_ with the way he’d been mooning over the Weasley girl, and that had been mere pixie love. 

Still, Potter gave no indication he was feeling any ill effects of the previous evening’s exertions or was at all flustered by Draco’s presence or even feeling inclined toward ‘companionship’, as the spell had at the very least promised. He practically slept through Potions, performed the requested Jinxes like a trained Crup in Defence, and embarrassed himself by turning his guinea pig into a toad instead of a miniature replica of himself in Transfiguration. Par for the course for a day in the life of Harry Potter.

When they passed each other in the hallway or found themselves returning to the Common Room in the same group, Potter did not go out of his way to avoid Draco, but nor did he so much as glance Draco’s way. His eyes passed over Draco, as if he were a ghost. Just like they always had.

So had the spell gone off wrong, or had it not worked _at all_? The two seemed mutually exclusive, and after a dinner that had been just as uneventful—save for Pansy’s incessant pestering—as breakfast, Draco holed himself up in the Library, pulling down from the stacks every book he could find on Old Latin and checking his pathetic attempts at a translation against Pansy’s. But the few words and odd verbal phrase he managed to piece together matched up reasonably well with Pansy’s translation, so he had to assume that whatever had gone wrong (or hadn’t) wasn’t to do with a misinterpretation of the instructions.

“If you think my translation’s off, darling, you can just say it to my face.”

Draco sighed, slumped over one of the reading tables in the back corner. “And give you an excuse to rake me across the face with your talons, Harpy?”

Pansy slid into the chair next to him, throwing one leg over the other and quirking a brow. “You ought to know my raking range by now—just make sure you’ve given me a wide enough berth and you’ve nothing to worry about. Or you could trust I know my shit and tell me what you’re _really_ looking for.” She leaned over and cocked her head to look him straight in the eye. “How’s the spell working out?”

“Smashingly. I’m doing Runes research.”

Pansy traced one exquisitely manicured nail over the spine of the book at the top of the stack: _Literaturā Priscai Latinitateī. _“Runes is looking a lot like Old Latin, you know.”

“A Ravenclaw left those out.”

“Darling, you’re shit at lying—why do you even try?”

“I’m not lying,” Draco said, Banishing the books back to their shelves and pulling on his school bag. “Only getting out of your raking range. _Darling_.”

There were some things you just didn’t share with your best friend, and while Draco would not have normally been shy about regaling Pansy with details of his conquests—she certainly wasn’t shy about giving Draco _far _more information than he cared to have concerning her own liaisons—he intended to get to the bottom of this Potter Problem before he tackled this Pansy Problem.

And while he was no closer to solving the Potter Problem, he looked to be about to find his way to the bottom of _something_ quite soon when Potter showed up again just as Draco was preparing to climb into bed. Doubly concerning this time was the fact that, Draco was certain, he’d locked his door—locked it, and not heard anyone enter. He’d only turned away for a moment to retrieve an epistolary set from the little desk near the fire grate, where he’d been penning his mother a letter—and then there Potter had been. Distressingly dishevelled and still wearing nothing more than those little black boxer-briefs. He looked like he’d been Summoned straight from his own bedroom. Perhaps he had.

Draco decided to do a bit of testing before he let himself be swept up in the moment this time, crossing his arms over his chest so Potter would know he was Not In The Mood. “Back for more, are we? Usually when someone’s locked his door, it means he’s not receiving visitors. But when’s a locked door stopped the Great Harry Potter?” Perhaps predictably, Potter was unmoved by Draco’s sneering jabs. They were admittedly getting a bit pedestrian; when you’d been through a war or three, cutting remarks from a teenager didn’t do quite the damage they might have once upon a time. “How did you get in here?”

Potter responded by taking several steps forward, slow and deliberate, and Draco forced himself to hold his ground—there would be no undignified scrambling back against the headboard this evening. 

“Are you aware of where you are, Potter?” Nothing, only another step, and Draco slowly, so as not to provoke, shifted around to place his high wingback between himself and Potter. He was _not _hiding behind the chair—only making sure Potter couldn’t pounce, as he seemed quite liable to do, before Draco got some answers from him. “You ignored me all day—was that deliberate? Or did you not recall being in here last night?”

Potter drew right up to the chair, fingers gripping the plushly upholstered wings, and stared in stark silence at Draco.

Draco searched his face for some indication of life—recognition, emotion, _anything_. Anything to suggest Potter was actually in there, even if he was in there and desperate to get out. Perhaps if Draco freed him from whatever Charm he’d inadvertently placed upon Potter instead of the Spell for Companionship, he’d politely thank Draco and be on his way, foregoing any sort of revenge he might be rightly entitled to. One could hope.

But there was nothing—Potter’s eyes were a dark green abyss, deep enough to lose oneself within, and Draco must have fallen inside somewhere along the way, for one moment he was counting the lashes on Potter’s lids and the next, Potter had his hands on his shoulders and was guiding Draco back, back into—

The chair. Draco collapsed against the wingback with a sharp gasp as Potter knocked his knees apart and sank down between them. “Oh—oh _fuck_, Potter—oh this is—you shouldn’t—”

But why shouldn’t he? He’d fucked Draco the once—what was a bit of light fellatio between not-companions? Clearly, Potter thought the same, for in another entirely too casual display of wandless magic, Potter waved his hand over Draco’s midsection, Vanishing his pants with but a thought. It was not a gesture Draco had yet found the strength of will to be offended by, and he cursed his bobbing cock.

It might have been unnerving, having Potter staring at his soft prick so earnestly and from such close distance—but he wasn’t looking at Draco’s prick. He was looking at Draco, himself, gently taking the shaft in hand and massaging it to attention with all the care in the world. His hands were soft and warm, not rough and callused like Draco had expected, and Draco unconsciously slid down further against the chair, legs spreading until his knees knocked against the arms. 

Draco swallowed. “Going to spend all night down there? Or going to actually suck it? Clearly you aren’t intending on using those lips to speak to me, so might as well.”

Potter needed no more instruction or invitation—he laid a line of warm breath against the shaft as he slid down to the tip, then pressed a gentle kiss against the slit, only just peeking out, before he drew back the hood and parted his lips. 

And of course he’d be _fantastic_ at this as well. There seemed no end to the Golden Boy’s sexual prowess, which utterly flabbergasted Draco. Where _had_ he picked up these tricks? How did one go from ham-fisted virgin to _Playwitch_ centrefold in a matter of months? The spell—it _had_ to be the spell, though Draco hadn’t a clue where he’d gone wrong in his casting.

Not that he was so terribly concerned with that at the moment—really, it was difficult to be terribly concerned with _anything_ when Potter’s tongue was doing _that_ to the great vein snaking along the shaft of Draco’s rapidly hardening cock. He only just held himself back from reaching down and burying his fingers in Potter’s hair to guide his rhythm. He had to retain _some_ dignity throughout this experience, after all. It was enough he was going to wind up begging to fuck Potter’s mouth, just as he’d done with his fist the evening before. No sense in demeaning himself any more than orgasm demanded.

So he tried to settle back and enjoy the experience. He closed his eyes and let his focus dwindle down to all the points of contact between himself and Potter: Potter’s fingers holding him fast by the hips, Potter’s nose buried in his thatch, Potter’s lips stretched wide and tight around his engorged shaft, Potter’s tongue laving him with all the enthusiasm of a First Year with a Sugar Quill.

He squeezed his legs, bracketing Potter’s shoulders, and flicked him across the lightning-bolt scar. Potter frowned up at him but did not stop, only drew off enough to suckle at the red-flushed tip. “I’d decide my taste for spunk quickly if I were you. It’s going to become relevant rather soon.”

Potter only rolled his eyes, as if this were the stupidest question he’d ever heard, and continued his attentions—which Draco was going to take for permission. He surged forward, out of the chair, and forced Potter to the ground, kneeling astride his chest while his wet cock bounced tantalisingly just inches from Potter’s lips. “Lean back,” he ordered, voice soft and brooking no argument, and Potter eased down onto his back—though the angle left something to be desired. Draco reached for the wand he’d left on his escritoire, Summoning one of the pillows from his bed, and used it to prop up Potter’s neck. “…Better,” he muttered to himself, then shuffled into position.

Knees on either side of Potter’s head, he glanced down, giving Potter one last chance to back out. “…I won’t be gentle.” A warning, a threat, Potter didn’t seem to care, hands sliding up around the back of Draco’s thighs as he leaned forward to take a swiping lick at the head—and with a jerking gasp, Draco lurched forward, on hands and knees, and slipped his cock through Potter’s parted lips.

It was a completely different sensation—from a completely different position—to the night before. His body knew this stance, _liked_ it, liked the idea of lying atop another and fucking into them with abandon. A mouth, an arse, it made no difference just now—what mattered was that it was tight and hot and willing (or as willing as Potter could be presumed to be). 

If Potter was uncomfortable, or if Draco’s jerky thrusting caused him any pain, he never said so—though what else was new? Draco wasn’t entirely sure he could have brought himself to stop if Potter _had_ protested—he likely would need to be thrown off bodily by this point, because his hips were pistoning in a crescendoing rhythm, and his breaths came in great gulping pants as he rushed headlong for his climax. He clenched his eyes shut, imagined it wasn’t Potter’s mouth, but _Potter_ himself, spread out so nicely, so welcoming beneath him. Holding him so possessively, craving his everything. Resentful and demanding and refusing to accept _No_, when Draco had been forced to swallow that rejection for so many years. Potter wouldn’t take _no_, he would just _take_. He always got what he wanted, in the end.

And Draco always got what he deserved.

With a jerking cry, Draco stilled—and spilled. Potter’s hands slid up to grip the globes of his arse, grabbing meaty handfuls with a ferocity that would surely leave marks. His throat worked even as Draco continued to spasm, grunting as his release rocked through him and out his slit and into Potter’s mouth. 

Potter held him in place, gentle but unrelenting, even when Draco’s knees began to quiver and his thighs ached to be relaxed. He drank his fill, throat bobbing and releasing not so much as a dribble with a seemingly unquenchable thirst for Draco’s leavings. Draco was distantly terribly turned on by the sight, but while the spirit was willing, the flesh was well and truly spent, and when Potter at last pulled off with a sated sigh, Draco collapsed onto his side, panting and half-blind with the flashes still spangling before his eyes.

As the high began to fade, though, the bits of him faced away from the grate grew chilly, swathes of goosebumps popping up in the dips and shadows. Potter wiped a hand across his mouth, licking his lips, then eased into a seated position before—again wordlessly and wandlessly—Summoning a quilt from atop the wardrobe and draping it across Draco’s prone form.

Draco was spent, but not out of it enough he couldn’t muster a wary frown. He drew the quilt up over his shoulders, grumbling, “…I’m not a child. And I’m not staying here, you nitwit. Unless you wanted to carry me to bed as well?” Privately, the idea didn’t disgust him, especially if Potter was planning on another round—he hadn’t gotten off yet, after all, at least as far as Draco could tell. He decided to follow that thread. “Or are you waiting for me to reciprocate? I like being _invited_ to blow a bloke, you know. Not to have it expected.” This was, of course, a bald-faced lie, though as Draco had blown a grand total of two people in his young life (three if you counted a very ambitious self-targeted Stretching Jinx) he didn’t feel he had all that good an idea of _what_ he did and didn’t like when it came to fellatio.

But Potter seemed in no particular hurry either way, sitting there cross-legged in nothing but his underpants and giving no indication of what they were meant to do now. 

Draco felt a wave of lethargy sweep over him, now he was warm and sated, and he crossed his arms as a pillow under his head and lay there, calmly watching Potter, who calmly watched him back. “…What in Merlin’s name are you about, Potter?” he muttered, though he neither expected nor received any manner of response. 

Potter was as present for these little shag sessions as he was in the light of day, which was to say not at all. This would not have normally concerned Draco—he was perfectly content with no-strings-attached fun—but Potter had never struck him as the sort to feel the same way. Least of all with Draco.

His lids fluttered shut, quite without his permission, and he supposed he must have drifted off, for when he next opened his eyes, his back was aching from sleeping on the floor, and the morning sunlight was beginning to creep through his window in riotous shades of orange.

Potter had, again, vanished. And Draco was inexplicably disappointed this time. It wasn’t that he _wanted_ the arsetit to stay over—it was only that he’d had the feeling somehow that he might actually get answers in the light of day. At least in the daylight hours, Potter seemed to have a voice and was not afraid to use it.

This day, though, was no different from the last in that Potter used that voice with virtually everyone but Draco. Certainly Draco could have goaded him into a trade of snipes, but that wasn’t quite the same as asking _Why’ve you been coming to my room every night and giving me the best sex of my life? Not complaining, just curious_. 

He forewent another trip to the Library—Pansy was probably staking it out and wouldn’t release him this time until he’d explained just how horribly wrong the spell had gone. Instead, as soon as he’d cleaned his plate at dinner, he marched back to his room, cast several strong Locking Spells on his door, and decided he’d catch up on his Transfiguration reading. If he couldn’t get this business with Potter sorted, he would need top marks in all his classes (and perhaps even in classes he _wasn’t_ taking, if he could at all manage it) to make anything of himself. 

But it was on tossing his school bag onto his four-poster to rifle through its contents that he noticed, for the first time since placing it on his bedside table, the bowl he’d used for the spell. The liquid inside was no longer crystal clear, having taken on a slightly murky quality that distorted the runes Draco had carved on the inside rim of the bowl. Frowning to himself, he reached under the bed and pulled out the spellbook from where he’d tossed it in a huff the previous evening. He quickly flipped through the yellowed pages to the marked passage, running a finger down the instructions list until he came to the warning at the very bottom: _Place the bowl—contents intact—by your pillow as you sleep. Once the liquid has turned milky white or within one turn of the moon, the spell must be recast for continued effects_.

Well. That meant the spell was _working_, didn’t it? Except of course it wasn’t working; he’d wanted Potter’s companionship—not his _cock_. And pleasant as their little romps had been, Draco was not immune to a niggling sense of guilt that told him this wasn’t right, he was taking advantage of Potter (even though Potter was the one coming on to _him_), and if he truly meant to be accepted by society as a whole again, he would need to start acting in a manner that was, well, _acceptable_.

The spell was working. The spell _was_ working. Perhaps not perfectly, but it was working. And did that mean that Potter was going to come to Draco again tonight? Did that mean he was going to come to Draco _every _night? Did Draco want that? He didn’t _not_ want it, but this wasn’t what he was meant to be doing. If Potter wasn’t aware of what he was doing now, he would _eventually_ realise—either he’d notice something was off himself (there were certain physical effects one could not simply ignore), or else one of his horde of worshippers would catch him slipping into Draco’s room after curfew. It _would_ come out, and then Draco would be fucked in an entirely new and not at all pleasant way.

But what was he meant to do, really? Potter would not listen to him, even when Draco told him point-blank to see himself back out the door, and while Draco had not attempted to cast anything on Potter since that first failed _Flipendo_, there was no saying a second attempt would be any more successful (or would it? Since clearly the spell _was_ working…). There was always the option to go to the Professors (which would surely get him expelled), Potter’s friends (which would surely get him crucified), or Pansy (which would surely be a fate worse than death or expulsion), but Draco was not yet so desperate that he was willing to throw himself to the dogs just to keep from getting his prick expertly sucked on a regular basis. 

And Potter was, it turned out, exceedingly regular, appearing at the foot of Draco’s bed that evening just as he’d stuck his head into his wardrobe to hang up his school tie. 

“How did you—I placed _several_ locking—you haven’t even got a—” Draco tried several times to decide on just what he wanted to yell at Potter for, but given he’d learned from experience this would be an exercise in futility, he simply wiped a hand over his face and waved Potter off with an exasperated huff. “I give up. I don’t even care at this point.” 

Potter was leaning against one of the bedposts, arms crossed, in nothing but his little black boxer-briefs again. Was that all he owned? If Draco snuck into Potter’s bedroom, would he find drawer after drawer filled with black boxer-briefs and nothing more? 

He suddenly felt overdressed, out of his robes but still in his uniform, and while Potter was for once not doing that disconcerting thing where he stalked Draco back against the wall and then had his way with him, Draco didn’t doubt that was coming soon.

Well, they would just see about _that_.

Because if this was going to happen—if Draco was going to _let_ it happen—he meant to test the arrangement and see just how far this absurd spell would stretch.

He crooked a finger at Potter, sauntering over to the wingback, where Potter had gone down on him so expertly the night before. “Here. Sit.”

And to his great shock, Potter complied, pretty as you pleased. So he wouldn’t leave the room if Draco asked, wouldn’t leave him _alone_, but he could and would follow simple commands in certain contexts. 

Draco peeled off his sweater vest and began plucking at the buttons to his button-up. “Vanish your pants,” he tried, and with a wave of Potter’s hand, they were gone, leaving Potter sitting bare-arsed on Draco’s fine chair. Draco considered the sight before him, Potter sprawled in the nude in Draco’s favourite bit of furniture—there were so many options, and Draco was spoilt for choice. 

In the end, he decided to start small and work his way up—he had, after all, three-plus weeks left to have Potter in every which way possible before the spell ended and Draco had to face whatever Lady Fate had planned for him. And if Potter objected to any of it? Well he’d let Draco know, and then they’d have it out.

But Potter did not object, in body or in word. He didn’t object to Draco sinking to his knees as Potter himself had and worshipping that lovely prick that begged to be told in no uncertain terms what an impressive specimen it was (privately, of course; Draco could not chance Potter getting an even bigger head than he already had and no longer being able to fit through the door). He didn’t object to Draco taking him over the escritoire, being nowhere near as gentle or careful as Potter had been with him. He didn’t object to Draco collapsing into the wingback and pulling Potter into his lap to ride him, bouncing upon Draco’s prick with the perfect pace and just as tight an arsehole as one might have expected from the Harry Potter. He didn’t object to _anything_ Draco came up with—and Draco had unabashedly put in several good hours of time he ought to have spent studying instead fantasising about all the new and inventive ways he might fuck or get fucked by Potter, so he had quite a cache of ideas on which to draw.

As intractable as he’d been when Draco had tried _not_ fucking him, he was only _too_ happy to go along with anything Draco suggested if it meant they one or both of them got off. He was enthusiastic—or as enthusiastic as one could be without saying a word—and had the stamina of an Abraxan, nearly always still raring to go after an invigorating round while Draco usually just wanted to pass out (and generally did). Draco’s prick hadn’t seen this much action in, well, _ever_, and he’d even had to bring himself off a few times during the daylight hours after getting lost in a memory or three.

But while Potter was nigh insatiable at night, he was as ever _insufferable_ during the day. Draco had made the poor choice—in the spirit of experimentation—to go out of his way to goad Potter into interacting with him, whether it be by knocking shoulders in passing, making snide remarks on his pedigree in class, or Charming notes with crude illustrations to dive-bomb him in the halls. But nothing seemed to really set him off, not anymore, and of course Potter would choose the absolute _worst_ timing to mature and put away childish rivalries.

Strangely, the more Draco found himself enjoying their heated nights together, the more he was frustrated by their interactions (or lack thereof) during the day, and he abjectly refused, on the grounds he wouldn’t like the answer, to consider why whether or not Potter paid him any mind in class or at meals or in their Common Room mattered to him in the slightest.

But avoiding a problem did not make the problem go away, as Draco ought to have well known, and his frustrations inevitably came to a head in a very public and mortifying fashion. Inevitable, because he was Draco Malfoy, and when had anything involving himself and Harry Potter _not_ resulted in his losing face?

It was, of course, in Defence. Potter’s bread and butter, he’d always been a deft hand in the subject, and his felling of the Dark Lord had done nothing to dim his purported prowess in the eyes of the unwashed masses. He was practically a member of the staff himself, so often did Professor Ammon have him awkwardly stood in front of the class, demonstrating spells like a trained monkey or tutoring those unfortunate few who weren’t picking up the content quickly enough for the professor’s liking. Draco generally scraped by, bound and determined not to suffer the humiliation of having to be tutored in magic by a _half-blood._ But for whatever godsforsaken reason on this particular Thursday, Ammon had decided that instead of pairing off Potter with Weasley, as both would have preferred, _Draco_ needed to suffer Potter’s presence.

It should be noted, here, that Draco’s attempts to needle Potter thus far had been performed entirely from a safe distance. He’d been on the wrong end of Potter’s wand once before, after all, and had not been keen to find himself trading curses with the git again. All things being equal, Draco was quite certain he’d rather fuck Potter on the Quidditch pitch, with the whole of Hogwarts and Hogsmeade watching, than duel him.

For his part, Potter seemed no more pleased with the situation than Draco—and Weasley looked like he’d swallowed a lemon as he dragged his feet over to take his position opposite Chang. There was nothing to be done for it, though; even Potter’s celebrity didn’t grant him leave to directly disobey a professor. So it was with a great amount of reluctance that he stood before Draco, wand raised with a limp wrist as he muttered, “Right, shall we get this over with?”

A pity for him, Draco had no intention of participating in this farce. He waved Potter off. “Don’t bother. I’m feeling a stomachache coming on and will be reporting to Pomfrey promptly.” He raised a hand for Ammon’s attention, when Potter scoffed.

“Bullshit—stop dicking around and cast. Once for you, once for me, and we’ll tell her we’ve mastered it.” Potter slouched into a duelling stance. “Just take your mark, Malfoy. I’ll go first, if you need a demonstration.”

Draco felt his ears go pink with shame. “I don’t need a fucking _demonstration_,” he hissed. “We don’t all think moonbeams shine out of your every orifice around here.”

“_Moonbeams shine out of_—what the bloody fuck are you on about? It’s a spell we’re meant to have memorised back in Fifth Year, Malfoy. If you know it, have a go—and if you don’t, watch me and copy what I do. It’s really not that complicated.”

“Of course it’s not that complicated—think I’m stupid, do you?”

“I think you’re trying to pick a fight.” Potter’s lip curled. “But what else is new with you? I’d have thought you might try and keep your nose clean, what with everything you’ve been through—but you’re still being an utter snot. You do realise once you’re out in the real world, people won’t give you a pass just because they feel poorly for you, right?”

And Draco saw red. He charged Potter, dropping his wand, and grabbed the fronts of Potter’s robes to give him a rough shake that nearly sent those bottle-frames perched on his nose flying. “Accuse me of looking for ‘passes’ again, and I’ll give _you_ a demonstration: of all the ways in which I learned to defend myself without a wand while waiting for my Hearing. Don’t you _dare_ fucking mistake me: I’m only not keen to let you take another potshot at me with your cheering section in full attendance.”

“_Gentlemen_,” Ammon called, clearing her throat loudly, and the room grew quiet as a tomb. Draco could feel every eye on them, and he took several quick steps back, shoving Potter away. “That does _not_ look like any type of duelling condoned in this classroom.” Her gaze slid over to Potter, and she asked, “…Are you quite all right, Mr Potter?”

Potter adjusted the fall of his robes, tugging at his tie, and nodded. “Yes, Professor—Malfoy only wasn’t feeling well. Rather unsteady on his feet, like you saw—I think he ought to visit Madam Pomfrey.”

Ammon looked to Draco, one brow raised. “…Is that so, Mr Malfoy?”

The idea of Potter bailing him out—giving him one of those ‘passes’—so galled Draco, he nearly undid himself. But as he was a Slytherin and not a Gryffindor, his instincts towards self-preservation outweighed his spite, and he drew himself up and nodded. “…Yes, Professor. I’d like to excuse myself to visit the Hospital Wing, with your permission.”

Ammon dismissed him, waving Potter to one of the other groups. “Mr Potter, please join Ms Chang and Mr Weasley then.”

Once her back was turned, Draco bent down to snatch up his wand, pointing it threateningly in Potter’s direction. “Stay the _fuck_ away from me.”

Potter just scrunched up his features in confusion and spit back, “_Gladly_.”

Draco rolled his eyes, threw his schoolbag over his shoulder, and stormed out—heading not for the Hospital Wing but instead the Library. More research was needed—this time, on Wards and Charms of Protection. He was through with this—through with Potter and this ridiculous spell that seemingly compelled him to seek out Draco in the hopes of a fun fuck. No amount of orgasms—even ones quite as spectacular as he’d given and received in recent days—was worth the headache of Potter’s involvement. 

But despite a promising afternoon in the stacks, where Draco learned to ward his room against visitors who sought to violate his chastity (an old spell fathers in the mid-1500s had used to protect their daughters from overeager suitors’ advances), Potter still _somehow_ showed up, just as Draco was turning down the lamps. And though Draco was still pissing angry from their earlier row and in _no_ mood for anything remotely amorous, this did not dissuade Potter in the least. If anything, Draco thought it might have made him randier than ever. 

Before, Potter had been gentle—insistent, but gentle. Tonight, though, he met Draco’s spitting fury with his own sort of quiet, unbending calm. He refused to give Draco the fight he so desperately wanted, meeting his every push-back and lash-out with a steady, inexorable passion. He laid hard, sucking kisses against Draco’s jaw, neck, collarbone, then rolled him onto his belly and fucked his thighs with slow, deliberate strokes. He was in no hurry, holding his pace steady even when Draco’s snarls of _Get the fuck off me_ shifted to _Get the fuck on with it_. Draco tried spreading his knees, presenting his arse so Potter understood what Draco was after—but still Potter pounded on, coating Draco’s thighs with a thick film of pre-slick. Only once Draco had shamefully spurted his entire load from Potter’s cockhead accidentally brushing his entrance on one particularly punishing thrust did he draw back, slick himself up, and nose in—slowly and carefully and unrelentingly, until Draco’s anger and irritation were entirely subsumed by bald sensation. 

And because he could, as if to say _Go on, test me again_, Potter somehow summoned the self-restraint to fuck Draco even _more_ slowly and _more_ carefully and _more_ unrelentingly than before, with long, teasing strokes that had Draco panting for release again with a refraction Draco hadn’t realised he possessed. This man was an absolute monster, a Dark Lord in his own right, and Draco thought—as he begged Potter to take him _faster harder rougher anything_—that he might have gladly taken a new Mark if Potter had offered it to him in exchange for orgasm.

Potter’s congealing spunk was still dribbling down his thighs when Draco mumbled petulantly against his pillow, “You can’t just fuck someone back into good humour, you know…” 

Potter’s cock, nestled in the little culvert between Draco’s legs, gave a little hop that argued the opposite, and Draco twisted around, shifting onto his side so he could glare at Potter properly—and stave off any attempts at a round two (or three, on Draco’s part). 

“You were an utter prig today. And you weren’t acting all that differently tonight, either. Ammon sucks your prick nearly as much as I do these days—you can’t honestly blame me for being in a snit.” Potter gave a dry little huff, lips quirking up, and Draco rolled his eyes and turned away again, wondering why he even bothered. Potter shifted closer, chest pressed up against Draco’s back, and he looped his arms around Draco’s middle, laying gentle, apologetic kisses against his nape. Draco swallowed, steeling himself against Potter’s searching sweet-nothings. “It’s difficult enough being seen and paid proper attention to, after all the shit I got myself involved in last year. I don’t need you making it worse—or playing the white wizard when no one’s asked you to. I don’t need _rescuing_. I need…” He sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “…I need to stop talking to myself, that’s what I need.”

Potter ceased his attentions to the neck, taking Draco by the shoulder and rolling him onto his back so that he could continue delivering kisses to Draco’s collarbone, neck, jaw, and forehead, where he lingered, forcing Draco to inhale the scent that gathered just at the base of Potter’s neck, until he continued down to his nose and finally delivered a deep, insistent kiss to Draco’s lips. He drew back before it could grow heated and just hung there, staring down at Draco—and drawn, like a sailor to his doom, Draco reached up with both hands to cradle Potter’s face, then eased up to kiss him back, lips lingering as long as he could stand. It helped nothing that Potter let this pass without protest, without pulling away or pushing Draco for more, just accepting whatever Draco deigned to give him. As pliant now as he’d been stubborn earlier, and Draco _hated_ him, so very much.

He flopped back down, lips twisted into a scowl. “…Do you even see me? Or is it all cobwebs and attic gnomes in there?” He reached up to flick Potter between the eyes—and Potter winced, but didn’t protest. Cobwebs and attic gnomes, indeed. “…I _am _trying. I’m trying to fix this. To be—better. I don’t want ‘passes’. I just…” He sighed. “I wish it weren’t so hard.”

And he knew he was whining, could hear it in his voice, and if Potter were actually Potter right now, he’d have said as such—probably told him to stop feeling sorry for himself. Get off his arse and _work_ to polish up that reputation instead of trying to magic it better. 

But, Draco was beginning to accept, Potter _wasn’t_ Potter when he was with Draco, and rather than give advice Draco would only dismiss with a scoff, he simply lay there, mutely drumming a hypnotic rhythm with his fingers over Draco’s chest. And Draco was all right with that. He got along better with Potter when they weren’t speaking anyway.

And not speaking to Potter was, as ever, not a problem in the slightest, as the closer he found himself feeling to the Potter who visited him in the watches of the night, the further he felt himself drifting from the Potter who haunted his daytimes. Night Potter let Draco unload all of his pent-up frustrations without a cross word, accepting whatever Draco threw at him and returning it ten-fold, bodily. Day Potter, by contrast, remained the unmitigated knob he’d always been, which only fueled the cycle.

Draco did not attempt to goad Potter into any further interactions, and Potter did exactly as Draco had requested and left him the fuck alone. Why this held true only for classes and did not extend to any bedroom activities, Draco could not begin to guess, but he was not so terribly put off by the arrangement these days. He was happy and sated, and Potter seemed utterly oblivious, so everyone won.

Well, happy but for the fact that more than three weeks had passed, now, since Draco had cast the spell that had started this whole fiasco, with his self-redemption plan thus far a complete and utter bust.

The little bowl at Draco’s bedside was getting murkier and murkier—the Knut he’d tossed in that morning had barely been a dark shadow beneath the surface. In another two, maybe three days, the spell would be broken—and then there’d be a reckoning Draco didn’t think he was prepared for for a _dozen_ different reasons.

He was running out of time in more ways than one, and not in three long weeks had Draco been able to parse any more of the spell’s language to determine just what he’d done wrong. Night Potter looked exactly like Day Potter—even down to the finger slice he’d suffered thanks to his piss-poor knife skills in Potions only a few days earlier. That left out any sort of conjuration or apparition—he was real and solid and an utterly perfect construct. He _was_ Potter. So was he only forgetting their liaisons? Draco couldn’t exactly strip Day Potter down and check his body for lovemarks, so there was no way to be sure exactly _what_ was going on.

No way, but to finally break down and turn to Pansy.

“Well it’s _about time_, Darling,” she cooed, taking him by the shoulders as soon as he’d stepped over her threshold and steering him over to the overstuffed armchair she kept by her fire grate, taking her own seat on an ottoman upholstered in the exact same fabric as the chair. “Now—_details_! How’s the spell been working? You don’t have to give me the _entire_ story, unless of course you’d like to, in which case mind if I prepare a Dictaquill?” Draco glowered at her, and she waved him off with a sigh. “_Fine_, spoil my fun. So?”

Draco sank back into the armchair, rubbing his face with a groan. “It was an _unmitigated disaster_.”

Pansy straightened. “Wait—_what_?” She scoffed. “That’s—what do you mean ‘disaster’? I’m not sure that’s even _possible_.” She placed a hand on his knee, peering up into his face with frank concern. “Draco, Darling, what _are_ you talking about? Disaster how?”

He shrugged, flippant. “I brewed the potion, cast the spell—went back to my room, and…”

“_And_…?” Pansy prodded, looking entirely too pleased with herself. Where had that touching concern gone?

Draco shifted forward, elbows braced on his knees and head hung. “…Something went…wrong. The spell—it didn’t make Potter _like_ me. It made him—” He clucked his tongue, then pitched his voice softer, biting out, “It made him want to _fuck me_.”

Pansy was staring at him in abject awe, and after a beat, she said, just as softly, “…Yes? Well? Did you let him?” 

And she didn’t sound terribly surprised—rather, she sounded almost _expectant_. Draco drew back. “Well, I—wait.” He shook his head. “I said he wanted to _fuck me_. Stick his prick in me. You do understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course, Darling: you brewed the potion, cast the spell, and _poof_!” She gestured wildly, miming an explosion. “Instant Potter!”

“Instant—_what_?” He clenched his hands into fists, wary he might be struck by the urge to reach out and shake her until answers came tumbling out. “Pansy—what…_what_ was that spell?”

“A spell for companionship, Draco—like you wanted. You said you wanted Potter to _like you_.”

“_Like_ me! Be cordial with me! Give me the time of day! Not—not _fuck me_!” He groaned, slumping back in the chair. “Fuck, I _have_ gone and slept with him, haven’t I?” He’d been hoping, faintly, that somehow there’d been a misunderstanding and Draco hadn’t done anything untoward after all.

“Draco…” Pansy gave a chuffing sigh. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you’re talking about—you came to me, _desperate_ I’ll remind you, wishing for a spell to make Potter like you. So I gave you the next best thing.”

“Next best—I didn’t want the ‘next best thing’! I wanted _the_ thing! Potter’s friendship!”

“But—” She boggled. “One, you know perfectly well that sort of spell doesn’t exist, any more than a _love_ spell exists. And two, do be serious, Darling: you’ve been gagging for Potter since First Year. Naturally I read between the lines when you came sniffing around for a spell involving ‘Potter’ and ‘companionship’.”

And oh _bugger_, they’d been on _entirely_ different wavelengths this whole time, and now—

He froze, turning her words over in his mind. “…Wait, what did you mean by ‘next best thing’?”

“Well,” she said, shoulders twitching with pride. “I smuggled one of Mummy’s naughty grimoires from the Library, just for you—they were terribly popular in seventeenth-century France, you know. ‘Companionship’ spells.”

“I don’t…” Draco shook his head. “What’s meant by ‘companionship’ if not friendship, then?”

“You know,” Pansy tittered, lips pursed primly. “A _phantasmic fuck_. It’s a magical sex toy, really when you get right down to it.”

Draco was beginning to feel faint. “A—_sex toy_?”

“For poor souls pining after the unattainable. It generates a magical construct based on the hair you used in the potion—then it syphons the memories from your ‘encounters’ and deposits them in the little Pensieve you made.” She waggled her eyebrows and leaned forward, chin in hand. “For later _review_.”

A Pensieve. He’d made a _fucking Pensieve_. And now it was full of memories of himself and…

And Night Potter. Night Potter, who wasn’t even _real_. Just a magical construct Draco had unwittingly created so he could get off with Potter without having to get off with _Potter_.

His head swam—he wanted to be sick.

Pansy must have noticed his pallor, for she quickly lurched forward to place a hand on his back, gently rubbing up and down. “Draco—Draco, what’s the matter? Oh, you aren’t cross with me, are you? Truly, I didn’t realise you _actually_ meant to try and befriend him. It’s only—you’ve been at each other’s throats for ages! Even if you _had_ managed to find a potion that might make him susceptible to suggestion, what were you planning on doing? Keep pouring it down his throat for the rest of his life?”

Of course not. Of _course_ not. He’d simply wanted a leg-up, with Potter none the wiser as to how they’d suddenly and inexplicably become friends, only knowing that they _were_. He hadn’t wanted a nightly fuck, hadn’t wanted someone who held him like they meant it, kissed him like they wanted to, listened to him—

Oh _god_. Oh—oh Merlin _fuck_. Oh he’d gone and gotten _soft_ for Potter. For a fucking _magical dildo_ in the shape of a man! He’d told Night Potter things—shared intimate pieces of himself. Sure, he’d done so because he’d been convinced Potter would never remember Draco rendering himself so vulnerable (and he wouldn’t), but that he’d done so _at all_ had been a monumental feat on Draco’s part.

He’d felt…he’d felt the tiniest bit proud of himself. Thought that maybe, perhaps, by some miracle, Potter really _was_ under there, and maybe some part of him would remember those things. Feel warmer toward Draco because of them, even if he wasn’t quite aware _why_.

“Draco…?” Pansy set a hand on his shoulder, but he rebuffed her, springing up from the chair and marching for the door. “Draco—where are you going, Darling?”

“I—this was a mistake. I’ve wasted more time than I can spare already on this stupid spell.”

“You _are_ cross with me,” she whined, and he turned on her with a frustrated groan, fists still clenched at his sides so he wasn’t attempted to draw his wand on her and Hex her hair on end.

“I’m not—I’m _not_. I’m only—irritated. At myself. It’s nothing to do with you, Pansy, dear. Honest. I was—” He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it. “…As I said, I’ve wasted too much time with this spell. Clearly it’s not what I need.”

“Well then let me help you—”

He laughed, a loud harsh bark. “No, no, my dear, you’ve helped _quite_ enough. I think…” He licked his lips. “I’m just going to…”

Except he didn’t know what he was going to do. He’d been operating this entire time under the assumption he’d only miscast the spell. That he might be able to recast it, properly this time, at the next moon’s turn. He’d been prepared to duck his head and ask Pansy to show him where he’d gone wrong—he hadn’t been prepared to learn he’d wasted the best orgasms of his life on a figment of his very randy imagination.

“…Draco…Draco, did you think he was _real_?”

It struck him, like an arrow through the heart, and he felt the air rush from his lungs. He shook his head, because he could not speak, but Pansy was already rushing across the flagstones to gather him in her arms. He shoved her away, but she held fast to his arm, refusing to be put off entirely.

“I’m _so_ sorry, Darling. I thought you’d enjoy it, have a bit of fun—I _honestly_ thought you knew what the spell was for. I never would have—if I’d known.”

He shook his head more sharply, taking a sharp breath. “Don’t. I made a foolish assumption. And now I’m—” He drew himself up. “And now I’m going to get rid of that fucking Pensieve, and we’re never going to talk about this again.”

“Oh, but Draco, surely—” He missed whatever it was Pansy ‘surely’ thought when he stormed from her room, slamming the door shut behind him.

And in retrospect, that had been poor form. She hadn’t done anything wrong—quite the contrary, she’d thought she’d been doing him a _fantastic_ favour. They’d given one another enough gag gifts of terrible taste over the years, this was par for the course. They would laugh about this, in some far-flung future. She’d snort into her glass of wine _Oh Draco, do you remember? In Eighth Year, when you spent an entire month sleeping with Potter? And it turned out he wasn’t even real? Serves you right, thinking with your south head instead of your north one!_ They’d toast to the memory, and he’d counter with something even more mortifying on Pansy’s part, and that would be that.

He had another few nights to go, he pondered, dragging his feet back to his room. He could, if he wanted, let the charade play itself out. He’d found a naughty spell scrawled in a cramped script in one of the books he’d been using for his research, and he’d been hoping to try it out with Potter. 

But he quickly dismissed the idea. It just wouldn’t be the same—knowledge was a nasty thing. No, he would Vanish the potion—and resolutely _not_ preserve any of the memories floating within—and reduce the do-it-yourself Pensieve to dust so he wouldn’t be tempted to use it again. He was a _Slytherin_—they always came out on top, one way or another. Well, except perhaps Professor Snape. And the Dark Lord. And the Lestranges hadn’t fared too well. Fuck, his House had quite the poor reputation these days.

He suppressed a shudder and ran his fingers through his hair, putting himself back into order. No matter: he would be the exception to the rule, in that case, restoring his image under his own power. 

“_Accio_ Pansy’s book,” he said, as soon as he’d crossed his threshold, and as the book zoomed out from under his bed, arrowing straight for him, he swiped his wand and followed up with, “_Evanesco_.”

The book disappeared with a mid-air _POP_, and Draco nodded, satisfied. It had been a cheap shortcut in the first place, borne of desperation. He was eighteen years old; he ought to well know by now that if he _truly_ wanted something, he was going to have to work for it. His father had taken the easy path to power, and where had it gotten him? A life-sentence in Azkaban. All this fuss could have been avoided if he’d just run for Minister for Magic formally, like all the other power-grubbing blowhards had through the years.

Now, the Pensieve—

But the Pensieve was gone. Draco darted over to the bedside table, glowering down at all that was left in its place: a circle outlined faintly in dust. He glanced around the table for signs it’d been knocked over—but there were no liquid stains on the flagstones, no shards of broken pottery. 

Perhaps the house-elves had thrown it out, thinking it was a bedpan. They were nosey little buggers—they’d reported him to Filch for owning a self-choking tie, thinking he’d meant to use it on another student and not for the more pleasurable purposes to which one might put a _self-_choking tie.

The book was gone, and the Pensieve as well. He might actually get a decent night’s sleep for the first time in weeks and not have to surreptitiously _Scourgify_ his own bits in the morning. On the morrow, he would make an appointment with the Headmistress—and perhaps Slughorn too, as his Head of House—and see if he couldn’t weasel his way far enough into their good graces they pointed him towards a few doors on which he might knock and get his rung-rising back on schedule.

He took his dinner in his room, loath to dine while Pansy hovered over him, absolutely pelting him in pity. She’d been his friend long enough she ought to know well how Draco would take such attentions. They were two peas in a pod in that respect—the woman was mad if she thought Draco wanted anyone feeling sorry for him. He’d nearly throttled Potter himself at the mere suggestion.

No, he was in no mood to trade words with her tonight. She’d only push him to be even more of a terror than he’d been that afternoon—they both of them needed some time to settle. After a few days apart, they’d fall back into each other’s arms, flush with apologies, and move on from this mortifying chapter of Draco’s life.

At least, that had been the plan.

And then Potter had shown up _again_ that night.

Draco wanted to scream. He really did. This wasn’t just a spell—it was a _curse_. It taunted you with whatever you darkly desired—gave you frankly _fantastic_ sex that you could never have outside the bounds of the spell, and you couldn’t even have a _fucking_ conversation with the damn construct. 

Draco marked his place in his book—an Old Latin grammar; he wasn’t going to have wasted the past month’s studies—and closed it with a sigh, setting it aside as he stood from his grate-side chair. He began to tug at his tie—but Potter just stood there, hovering in the doorway, staring at Draco.

And _wearing clothes_. God, he’d quite forgotten what Potter looked like wearing _clothes_. Normal clothes—not his school robes or his uniform, and not the naughty little black boxer-briefs the construct usually wore. 

But then, the construct was meant to show you what you wanted most, wasn’t it? Draco had wanted Potter in his bed, on some subconscious level—very, _very_ subconscious, he wanted it known—so he’d appeared in next to nothing. Now that Draco (again, subconsciously) wanted something more and had been disappointed he couldn’t have it, here was Potter looking almost normal.

Definitely a curse.

Potter hung back by the door this time, for once not simply barging in and shoving Draco against the nearest hard (or soft) surface without so much as a by-your-leave, and of _course_ now he’d learn some manners. 

Draco’s tie came loose, and he let it flutter to the flagstones, frowning at what he was about to do.

He was making this happen, of course. It was all in his head—the spell, taking his thoughts and fantasies and twisting them. Of this he was perfectly aware, for once in his right mind while Night Potter was in his room. But it had been one thing to Vanish Pansy’s useless book—it was another thing entirely to turn away the construct when he was standing _right here_, in front of Draco, looking impossibly vulnerable in his overlarge sweater and ratty trousers and scuffed trainers. 

And Draco simply wasn’t that strong of will. 

Wherever the Pensieve had gotten off to, it was clearly still doing its job—likely would be for another few days yet, until the full moon showed its face again. So why shouldn’t he indulge, if it made no difference either way? 

His argument settled in his head, Draco took a few experimental steps closer, giving Potter the once-over. The construct was _exquisitely_ crafted. He’d thought so before, but the spell had even crafted Potter’s hideous glasses this time. Draco had despaired of their absence before—but they’d been a welcome way of differentiating Night and Day Potter. He wanted them gone, he decided_. Immediately._

Once within touching distance, Draco reached out to remove them—and Potter actually _flinched_. 

“Don’t be difficult,” Draco muttered. “I know you like to do your fancy wandless spells, but I mean to strip you down myself this time.” If this was going to be the end of it all, he wanted one last memory—for himself, not for a Pensieve. 

Potter silently obliged him then, allowing Draco to remove his glasses, which he promptly tossed aside—and Potter frowned. Oh yes, Draco quite liked this. He ought to have gone to Pansy sooner; he could have been shaping this experience to his preferences the entire time! He absently reflected that he shouldn’t have Vanished the book so quickly; this wasn’t an altogether bad way to spend a few evenings. Ah well—if these sorts of spells had been as popular once upon a time as Pansy insisted, he was certain to come across another version if he went searching.

With Potter’s face finally freed from its speccy prison, Draco allowed himself to indulge, sliding his palm along the stubble-lined jaw and settling at the base of Potter’s neck. They were close, now—chests nearly brushing on each deep inhalation, and Draco imagined he could smell all the places Potter had been: the harsh antiseptic notes from the Hospital Wing, the cloying scents of the Potions cabinet, a hint of light sweat and bracing wind from an after-dinner jaunt around the Quidditch Pitch. He smelled exactly like Draco imagined Potter would smell—and Draco swallowed down the harsh disappointment threatening to rise in his throat. A curse, he reminded himself.

Potter cocked his head, just a tic to the side, until his nose brushed against Draco’s cheek, and Draco could feel the sharp inhalation he drew in from that brief flash of contact. He leaned into it, tilting his head until their noses touched—then pressed forward, taking Potter’s lips with his own. Chapped, of course. Potter liked to worry his bottom lip in classes when he was struggling with what invariably would turn out to be a problem even a Second Year could solve.

Draco worked his fingers between their bellies to grab at Potter’s shirt with one hand and his fly with the other, tugging in concert as he walked them back—joined at the lips—toward his bed. It was an exciting new experience, getting to undress Potter for once—he hadn’t even been allowed to enjoy his _own_ undressing in previous liaisons, as Potter carelessly Vanished his clothes so that they might more quickly get to the fucking. Draco hadn’t really minded it at the time, but in retrospect, he ought to have been more insistent. Foreplay was meant to be savoured—and he would teach Night Potter just that before the spell concluded.

He peeled up Potter’s shirt, breaking the kiss and giving him a tap on the elbow to encourage him to lift his arms. Potter complied, and the shirt was tossed aside to join the glasses. Draco meant for the trousers to follow, but he was having a devil of a time unbuttoning the fly one-handed, and Potter snorted softly at him as if to say _Butterfingers?_

“Quiet,” Draco sniffed. “I’m only not used to this. You’re usually in your altogether when you show up—haven’t exactly had opportunity to dismantle you as I please, now have I?” This seemed to satisfy Potter, who gently eased Draco’s hands away, unbuttoned his trousers, and shucked them in one go, kicking off the ratty trainers along with them. Draco eyed the dingy off-white socks Potter now stood in, one with a great hole in the big toe, and decided he actually kind of missed the Night Potter who showed up ready to go in nothing but his pants.

The socks Draco had no qualms about just Vanishing from right off Potter’s feet, which left Potter wearing only his undergarments: an A-shirt nearly as ratty as the socks, and a pair of boxer-briefs in not black but maroon, with little Snidgets darting to and fro. Perhaps fearing Draco would Vanish the A-shirt as he had the socks, Potter quickly stripped it off and tossed it into the growing pile of his clothes in the corner. He slipped his fingers under the hem of his pants, fixing Draco with a look that asked if he ought to, or if Draco preferred to do this himself as well.

Draco considered the options, then backed up to his four-poster, leaning against the bedframe and shooing Potter away. “Go on then, give us a show.”

Potter half-scowled, half-smiled as he shimmied out of his boxer-briefs—and into the pile they went. He seemed to not know what to do with his hands, eventually deciding to cross them before himself and give some cover to his prick. It was a little bit endearing, despite it all, especially with the way Potter’s gaze kept darting everywhere but Draco: the cool flagstones beneath his now-bare toes, the empty fire-grate, the immaculately made-up bed.

It was on the bed that Potter’s gaze lingered longest—a bit nervous, a bit excited, and he looked so _new_, so inexperienced, that Draco couldn’t strip fast enough. His own uniform promptly joined the pile with Potter’s ratty hand-me-downs, but he paused when he was down to just his own pants, casting a sidelong glance at Potter—who had evidently overcome his reluctance to look Draco’s way and was eyeing his arse with undisguised avarice. 

Well then. Draco _had _had plans for how he meant the evening to proceed, but that look? Oh, his plans were _shot_. He hopped up onto the mattress, slinking backwards and crooking a finger for Potter to join. Potter hesitated—but only for a moment, leaving Draco to wonder if the spell _hadn’t_ been miscast. He liked this version of Night Potter rather a lot more than the pushy, demanding construct that refused to listen. Perhaps the memories weren’t meant to be stored in the Pensieve indefinitely, infecting each subsequent encounter with all the bits and pieces of previous encounters that Draco hadn’t enjoyed. This freshly Conjured construct was much more amenable, much more _pliant_, and stubborn in all the right ways. All the Potter ways. Maybe not such a curse after all when cast correctly.

Draco would not dwell too deeply on it, he decided. There were only so many hours in the night, and he meant to get his fill before Night Potter vanished as he always did after their liaisons, leaving Draco with only Day Potter to contend with—far less amenable to bedroom antics with Draco and likely only half as skilled, if that.

Potter clambered up onto the high mattress with some difficulty, shoving his hair back from his face and crossing his legs awkwardly, as if Draco hadn’t seen his cock from every possible angle a dozen times already. Draco settled back against his mountain of pillows, welcoming Potter into the cradle of his legs. If this was the end of it all, he’d take everything he could. He wanted to look up, while Potter slid into him, and know it was _Potter_ fucking him—even if it wasn’t actually Potter fucking him. It was quite the closest he was ever likely to come, and he would remember every last waking moment of it.

Here, Potter didn’t hesitate, easing forward into Draco’s embrace with an endearing eagerness that brought a reluctant smile to Draco’s lips when Potter dipped in for another long, lingering kiss. It was a new experience—kissing while smiling—and Draco found he didn’t dislike it. Potter was insistent and demanding and stubborn as ever, but with a sort of rough, unpolished immaturity that Draco thought he would have quite enjoyed honing to a fine point. It could get a little boring, was all, when you were _both_ fantastic in bed. 

Draco cocked his head to the side, breaking the kiss to press cheek-to-cheek, and he rolled up against Potter’s cock, dragging his own still trapped inside his pants alongside it. Potter jerked, pulling back with wide eyes, and he glanced down between them as if only just now registering that Draco did in fact have a prick and knew how to use it. Draco watched him, unable to tear his eyes away, and gave another long, slow roll. Potter had drawn too far back, though, for Draco to arch into him, and he snapped his hands out, grabbing the globes of Potter’s arsecheeks and guiding him back down. Potter gaped, slackjawed, as Draco rocked against him again, jerking with a violent hiss when their pricks slid together, separated by but the thinnest strip of fabric.

“My, my…sensitive tonight… I hope this doesn’t preface a short performance.” Potter glared at him, red-cheeked with a guilty hunch to his shoulders, and Draco laughed, patting him on the cheek. “Well, it’s a long night and you’re a healthy construct—perhaps we can hope for an encore in that case.” He reached an arm up, looping it around Potter’s neck to draw him closer, and whispered against his lips. “Get me hard through my pants—and then maybe I’ll let you Vanish them.”

Potter didn’t need telling twice, rutting against Draco with a fevered intensity that was not, admittedly, all that pleasurable at the outset. Potter seemed to find his rhythm quickly, though—it must not have been pleasurable for _him_ either—and in record speed, Draco was straining, the dark wet stain spreading over his pants testament to just how easily he got it up for Potter these days. If he wasn’t careful with this spell, their classes together were going to be unbearable for the remainder of the term.

Right. That was quite enough foreplay. He had no faith in Potter’s ability to put on a lengthy show this evening and wanted to get off quickly enough for them to both rally for a second round before Draco called it a night. 

Draco took one of Potter’s wrists in his own, guiding his hand down to their bellies—and below. He pressed Potter’s palm to his straining prick, giving a gentle squeeze, and said, “Go on, you lightweight—Vanish them if you must.”

But Potter didn’t wave his hand over Draco’s pants—instead, he hooked a finger in the band, then began tugging them down. He tapped Draco’s thigh meaningfully, and with a frown, Draco raised his legs up and over Potter’s head, rocking back so Potter could pull them over the bony swell of Draco’s arse—then up and off. 

“Why didn’t you Vanish them?” Draco asked, still frowning. He didn’t know why it bothered him. Potter so effortlessly wandlessly and wordlessly casting magic had pissed him off royally thus far—he ought to have been relieved by so pedestrian an approach to sex.

Potter just shrugged, then tossed the underwear over his shoulder, where it joined the rest of their clothes. Draco imagined some distant alternate reality where they fell asleep together and awoke the next morning, sleep-drunkenly dressing in one another’s clothes. 

He was abruptly brought back to _this_ reality, though, when Potter reached out and ran a finger down his straining shaft, tip to tail, and traced his bollocks appraisingly. Draco squirmed but didn’t tell him off, wondering what Potter meant to do. Potter appeared equally consternated, staring down at Draco’s prick like he’d never seen another man’s bits in his life. Potter’s own prick seemed enthusiastically decided, though, and Draco let his legs fall open in bald temptation. 

“If you’re waiting for a letter of invite from the Headmistress, I’m afraid we’re going to be sat here a while.”

Potter gave a tight smile, took a breath, and then—

Draco snapped his legs shut, hissing, “What the—cast a damn _Lubrico_ before you do that, you nitwit!” Potter jerked back, both hands raised in defence, and Draco huffed in indignation, rolling over to grab his wand from its stand. “Obviously he’s in the mood to do it the _old-fashioned_ way. Of course he is.” He muttered several more choice complaints under his breath, then pointed his wand at Potter’s prick with a whispered _Lubrico_—and performed the spell a second time on his arsehole for good measure. Night Potter was even more unpredictable than usual this evening, so he would take no chances.

Potter shivered in delight, giving himself several good, hard pumps that had him gasping, and Draco knocked him with a knee, warning, “Hands off the goods, Potter. You pop before I’ve had my fill, and I’ll—” He caught himself with a frown. “…Well, I don’t know what I’ll do. But I’ll make you regret it, one way or another.” Potter looked dubious, but he did at least release his prick. Draco gently took him by the wrist again, guiding his hand back between Draco’s legs and instructing with all the care of someone whose very comfort depended on Potter not fucking this up, “Two at the very least—three for good measure. You’re no Hippogriff, but this isn’t a task one wants to skimp on, generally.”

Potter frowned as if to say _I am so a Hippogriff_, and Draco leaned back with a gruff chuckle, muttering, “Sure, Potter, you tell yourself that.” He arched his back, snatching up one of the pillows and sliding it under for support, then closed his eyes as Potter began to circle his arsehole with one probing finger—before easing in slowly up to the first knuckle.

It was awkward, a bit uncomfortable, and so achingly real that Draco had to catch himself, at several points, before he tumbled too deeply into imagination and overlaid this quirky construct with the very real Harry Potter snoozing just a couple stone floors and few doors down. Potter worked him open with the same care and concern he exerted polishing his broomstick—not a euphemism in this instance. Utterly fixed on the task, marvelling at the fine job he was doing—Draco might have laughed, except laughter was quite the furthest thing from his mind at that moment. He wanted to cry in relief when Potter finally drew back, braced himself, and began to nose in—slow and insistent and _full_ as that very first night. Draco couldn’t have asked him to stop even if he’d wanted to—his voice had fled him. 

He felt like a construct himself: a shadow of what he was meant to be. Enough for now, but not fit company for anyone in the long term. Night Potter felt more real to Draco than Draco did himself. Odd—but not off-putting. He could play at being Potter’s construct tonight.

Perhaps thinking he might hurt Draco, Potter’s thrusts came jerky and unpolished, too shallow for comfort with no rhythm to speak of. “_Harder_,” Draco urged, knowing the pace would come naturally as Potter gave in to instinct. 

He did not need to be told twice, easing down onto his elbows as he made every effort possible to drive himself deeper into Draco with each pass, hips pistoning as quickly as he could manage. Sweat sheened over Potter’s body, and everywhere they touched—brushing noses, chests, bellies—met with a deliciously slick heat. Draco craned his neck back, seeking out Potter’s lips—and they met with a searing heat Draco felt as a brand. He took it, drawing it into his veins and praying with all that he was this might push out the poison of the Dark Mark and he’d _finally_ be free. Let Potter’s goodness actually do some _good_ for once.

He drank deep of Potter, taking him in every way humanly possible, and told himself this was for the best.

It was for the best he learned this was all in his head, an elaborate masturbation fantasy, before he went and got any more emotionally invested in fucking Harry Potter than he could safely recover from.

Potter’s pace was accelerating, and Draco knew he was building to a big finish, flashy knob that he was. Draco clutched his arms tight about Potter, face buried in Potter’s neck as he rolled forward to meet each new bone-juddering thrust, drawing him impossibly deeper and ever closer. A curse, he decided with finality. _Absolutely_ a curse. He hugged Potter so tight he worried he would crush his bones to so much dust as his orgasm swept through him in wave after wave after wave. His mind went blank, his vision white, and all he knew was himself and Potter and this bed. And that was all right.

But then, with a grunting huff of completion, Potter pressed into him, the weight of him bearing Draco down into the mountain of pillows and the plush mattress underneath. He held there, for a long, golden moment—and then shattered, collapsing atop Draco with great panting breaths. Draco came back to himself slowly, body still shaking and nerves still buzzing, and everywhere ached or was sticky or else sweaty. Potter was awkwardly manoeuvring limbs that Draco knew from experience felt like lead, and with his wits still lost to the four corners, Draco reached out with one hand to caress Potter’s jaw before tilting his head down so they could meet in a final kiss. 

Draco lingered, long enough his neck began to ache, but Potter humoured him, even followed his lips as Draco pulled away, stopping only when Draco braced a hand between them and said, with a tight, unhappy smile, “That’ll teach me to take shortcuts, I suppose.” He really only had himself to blame, didn’t he? This wasn’t Pansy’s fault. This wasn’t the real Potter’s fault. This was Draco’s fault, and he needed to start taking responsibility for his phenomenally poor choices. Perhaps having been bruised by this experience, he wouldn’t soon make the same mistake again.

But Potter leaned down, buried his face against Draco’s neck, and with thighs still trembling from his wracking orgasm, breathed softly, “_Draco_…”

_Oh. _Draco hadn’t known his name could _sound_ like that. All desperate plea and choked apology and ragged defeat. Thank god the construct had never spoken before.

Draco lay there, staring up at the iron chandelier twirling hypnotically overhead with Night Potter drowsing contentedly atop him, and never had he felt more alone in his life. Even in the darkest depths of the war, he’d had his parents at least, though he had known on some level that they had been as helpless as he and could no more have saved Draco if the Dark Lord had decided he was bored of him than they could have saved their own skins. Still, there was something to being trapped in a hopeless situation _together_, with people you knew cared about you. Much as he loved Pansy, she had her own problems to deal with in the fallout of the war and could not reasonably be asked to drop her efforts to restore her image and make something of herself just because Draco was having a crisis of conscience.

It helped not to think about it, though. He was very, very good at ignoring unpleasant truths, so instead of considering just how he would make his case to McGonagall and Slughorn come the morning, he said, still a bit breathless, “…I never knew the constructs could speak. All this time, I could’ve been making you say the most deliciously filthy things. What a waste. And that Pensieve! A pointless frivolity, clearly. If the damn spell works fine without it, why waste the effort? Have you any _idea_ how difficult Dead Sea limestone is to come by these days? Well of course _you_ don’t—but it’s very difficult to come by and—”

“They can’t speak.”

“—I haven’t got a sterling line of credit so—” Draco froze, rant dying behind his tongue.

“…And I’m pretty sure the spell doesn’t work without the Pensieve either,” Potter said, words muffled against Draco’s shoulder.

Draco roughly shoved him away, bolting upright with his heart in his throat and scrambling back on the bed. He blindly groped behind him for his wand. Fuck. _Fuck_.

It was _actually_ Potter. Not Night Potter. _Day-fucking-Potter_. 

His fingers caught on his wand, and though they were sweaty and slick, he managed to grab the hilt and angle it in the right direction. Magic hadn’t worked on the construct, for what were now obvious reasons, but he was _pretty_ sure that the real Potter would actually be cowed by an _Impedimenta_ to the chest.

Potter grabbed at the pillow Draco had been using to support his back, clutching it before himself as if it were an enchanted shield as he sputtered, “Wait—wait! Please don’t—just, let me talk? I know you probably want to Banish me—”

“_Banish_ you?!” Draco shrieked. “You’ll be lucky if I don’t see if a third Killing Curse might stick!”

Potter curled himself into a ball behind the pillow, waving one hand in defence. “Right, right! Let’s not—I mean, _really_ let’s not. And maybe—” He pitched his voice softer. “Maybe _keep it down_? I don’t think either of us wants our friends barging in, wondering what the racket’s about.”

Draco considered this; he didn’t so much mind if Pansy saw him like this—but Weasley would be insufferable, and Granger didn’t bear thinking about.

Potter seemed to detect an opening, and he slowly lowered the pillow a tick. “Just—hear me out? I get that…you’re a little freaked out. A _lot_ freaked out. Understandably so, and okay now that I’m thinking about it, this was…this was a terrible idea…” He trailed off, gaze going distant as he frowned to himself. Merlin’s _balls_, this man was an absolutely _nimrod_. He shook his head, though, squaring his shoulders as he placed the pillow in his lap. As if in doing so he might distract from what they’d just done. “Kick me out, or curse me, or whatever—but…but let me talk, first?”

Draco shook his head, adamant, and pointed to the door with his wand. “You can either carry yourself there under your own power or be Banished there, it makes absolutely _no_ difference to me.” He made a face, roughly carding his fingers through his hair and grabbing a hunk just to feel something outside of confusion. “_Fuck_, you can’t just—_why_ would you—”

“Parkinson gave me the bowl,” Potter blurted out in a rush. “She—I didn’t give her much time to explain it, in all fairness, but…well, it wasn’t very difficult to figure out. Once you…took a peek inside.”

“Bowl?” Draco frowned—then his expression went slack with realisation. “The Pensieve.” He bit his thumb in frustration. “That _bitch_—”

“Oi,” Potter snapped. “Don’t call her that.”

“Oh _don’t_ give me that sanctimonious tripe,” Draco snarled back, pacing out his frustration. “It wasn’t hers to give. That was _personal property_ and—” He stopped, then slowly turned to regard Potter from the corner of his eye. “_Took a peek inside_…?”

“Malfoy…” Potter started.

“You—_watched my memories_? _Knowing_ they weren’t yours to view?”

“Oh that’s _rich_ coming from the guy who wanted to Charm me into being his friend! ‘Cause yeah, I heard about _that_ too. You’ve had some demented plans before, Malfoy, but that one was the stupidest, most _idiotic_—” He threw his arms up in irritation. “Just _ask_ someone to be decent! And be decent back! It’s really not that complicated!”

And all right, Draco was the last person on earth who needed lecturing about what a great big hypocrite he was, but this and that were entirely separate issues, he maintained. “She had _no right_ to show you that bowl, Potter. Goodie-two-shoes that you are, I’d have thought you might have the decency to return it to its rightful owner _without_ violating my privacy!”

“Yeah, you’re right, I _should _have—you happy? But I didn’t. Let’s say we’ve both done some morally questionable things in the past few weeks and move on, shall we?” Potter slid off the bed, though he kept the pillow clutched at his midsection. “She said…she said she thought it was a waste, if I didn’t see it. And she made me _swear_ I wouldn’t do anything to you because of what I saw. And I won’t.”

“My aching arse says different.” It didn’t ache—not yet at least. But he cruelly enjoyed the way Potter ducked his head in shame, scrubbing at his neck.

“Er…sorry. About that… I just, I didn’t mean to—I tried to do what you said, but I haven’t really…”

He kept his gaze averted, and Draco rolled his eyes. He did _not_ need to be regaled with Potter’s virgin rambling at nearly midnight.

“_Fuck_,” he spat again, mostly to himself, and fought the urge to punch the wall—Pomfrey would not appreciate being roused in the wee hours to see to his self-inflicted injuries, and he wasn’t about to freely invite Potter to cast anything on him. “I knew this would happen, I really did—and do you want to know _how_ I knew? Because this is what happens to me. More so when it involves _you_. You’re so—so fucking _you _and I make horrible decisions, so here I am, standing here with my prick out while Harry Potter’s got literal gobs of blackmail material on me.”

Potter physically recoiled. “I’ve got literal—_what_?”

Draco scoffed. “Oh _please_ let’s not.”

“No, let’s…let’s! Let’s _do_, because are you _mental_? Wait—” Potter tossed aside the pillow, marching boldly over to the pile of discarded clothes and digging out his hideously tacky boxer-briefs, passing Draco his own in the doing. “I can’t talk to you with your—everything hanging out.” Before Draco could make a remark, he followed up with, “And we _are_ talking, so get comfortable.”

Well _fine_.

As he did not expect Potter would be moved from Draco’s room short of by magical Banishment (and the last thing he needed was Potter making a spectacle of himself banging down Draco’s door begging to be heard out), Draco opted for that famed Slytherin malicious compliance, toeing on his pants and sauntering over to the wingback sat beside the fire grate. He made himself comfortable, as requested, and propped his chin up with one hand, motioning for Potter to continue.

Potter frowned, as there was clearly nowhere for _him_ to sit, but that was his own problem, now wasn’t it? In the end, he plopped down cross-legged on the plush rug at Draco’s feet, arms wrapped around his knees and staring up at Draco with a full face and wide eyes that Draco wished he’d bothered to put away behind those nasty glasses. Never had he missed the ‘speccy’ part of the ‘speccy git’ so fervently.

“Right, now I’m gonna ask again: _are you mental_? Do you _seriously_ think I’d use any of that—that _stuff_ you were doing, against you? To hurt you?” Draco did not remind him that ‘that stuff’ could likely be argued to be some form of sexual assault, or at the very least attempted, because he was in enough shit as it was. “First off, _I’d_ be the one whose image came off the worse in this situation—it’d follow me to the end of days, _especially_ if the _Prophet_ got ahold of those memories. And second—” Potter jerked a thumb at the bed, cheeks darkening. “I realise you’ve not got a very high opinion of me, but do you really think I’d do _that _just to get one over on you? That sort of manipulation’s more _your_ style. Not mine. Trust me, if I wanted to humiliate you, I’d do it to your face, not behind your back.” He frowned in consideration. “…Or on top of you, or in any _other_ positions. Just so we’re clear.”

Draco had his arms crossed over his chest, drumming his fingers impatiently as he waited for Potter to finish. “…All right, what the hell _are_ you doing here, then?”

Potter coughed, and he looked very guilty. “…Cause, I dunno. I got—curious, I guess.”

“You—_what_?”

“I watched a few rounds and got—I didn’t mean to _watch_ watch, but I was already inside the memory before I knew what was going on, and you were there and I was there, and I got—”

“You got hard.”

“I got _curious_!” Potter sputtered, indignant, but he was squeezing his legs together as he said so, which did nothing to dispel Draco’s doubts. “I mean, it certainly explained a _lot_ about how you’ve been acting. Which was _really weird_—trust me, I noticed.” He shrugged with a sigh, mumbling mostly to himself, “I just…wondered why you’d done it. I mean, I could actually kind of understand why you might try a spell like that in the first place, even if I think it’s a totally stupid idea and would never have worked—but the rest?” 

He was peering up at Draco with those big eyes again, brows knit in a way that made Draco want to flick him good right where they met. Draco scoffed, as if the answer ought to be obvious: “Honestly, Potter, why do you _think_? What teenage boy in his right mind is going to turn down freely offered sex?”

But Potter had to be difficult, refusing to be half as dim-witted as Draco might have hoped. “…So you’re saying if it’d been _Ron_ who showed up, you’d have jumped his bones as well?”

“Of course not!” Draco snapped reflexively, feeling a bit nauseated at the notion, and Potter nodded.

“Right, I figured. So…?”

Draco wanted to bite off his own tongue—but Pomfrey had a cure-all for that, so it would only buy him a few hours at best. Perhaps he could convince Potter to slice him up again, if he asked nicely. Instead, he just bit out waspishly, “Are you thick?”

Potter glanced down at his crotch. “Well—you said I was no Hippogriff—”

“Oh _fuck off_.” Potter had his brows raised, expectant, and Draco made a face. “You’re so damn curious, go ask Granger to explain it, like you usually do.”

“All right,” Potter said, easing onto his knees. “I will.”

“Fuck,” Draco said, panicking. “Don’t do that.” He scrubbed at his hair, slumping back in the chair with a sour frown. “I obviously let it happen because I didn’t have a problem with it. Surely even your peabrain can wrap itself around _that_.”

Harry gave him a long, appraising look. “…You thought sleeping with me was just as effective as being my friend in trying to convince me to help restore your image.”

Draco ran a tongue over his teeth, rubbing at his temples, and said with great restraint, “…You know what? _Do_ go ask Granger.”

“You keep telling me to do that, eventually I’m going to.”

Draco ignored him, barrelling on. “And it wasn’t a ‘totally stupid idea’ and it _would _have worked.”

Potter laughed, though there was no mirth in it. “Really? I thought Slytherins were supposed to be cunning. You thought it was a _good idea_ to cast a spell and think I’d just magically become your friend?” Draco turned away, he’d already heard this from Pansy. But Potter wasn’t letting it go. “And what if it _had_ worked? Were you just going to keep casting it forever? Or were you thinking of graduating to Imperius.”

“Of course not,” Draco said, opening his big mouth. “You can throw that off.” He slapped a hand over his mouth and bit a knuckle. Morgana’s _tits_ but he was useless after a healthy orgasm.

“Uh huh. So maybe you were relying on my—what did you call it? ‘Goodie-two-shoes’ nature? To not turn you in. Or at least not press charges.” Potter frowned to himself, wrinkling his nose. “…I suppose that last one had a decent chance of working.”

“Oh don’t be an _idiot_,” Draco snapped with a huff. “Of course I wasn’t going to apply it _indefinitely_.” There was the aforementioned matter of the limited availability of Dead Sea limestone, after all. “…The spell was meant to facilitate the process only. Make you _amenable_ to overtures. After perhaps a few months, I’d have worked my way into your cosy little circle, and then you’d see what _fantastic_ company I was and forget any dust-ups we might have once had, no enchantment necessary.”

Potter was gaping at him—and then the knob actually _laughed_. And he sounded like he meant it this time. “Oh my god, you’re _really_ bad at this.”

“At what?” Draco asked, bristling.

“Being friends!”

“That—well that’s _preposterous_—” Draco started, before reflecting that _oh_. Oh. Perhaps he was. Most everyone he was on speaking terms with was through accidents of fate. Goyle was only still hanging about because it was what he’d always done, and he’d known Pansy since they were in nappies—they’d nearly gotten _married_. Zabini, Crabbe, Nott… Everyone he’d ever been close with he’d either bought, promised, or threatened into friendship. Part of him suspected Pansy only still hung around because she found Draco amusing. It was an uncharitable thought—and one he knew to be untrue, deep down—but still, it nagged.

He fixed Potter with a meaningful look, refusing to be cowed by those piercing eyes. “…I _am_ trying.”

“Yeah,” Potter said, shaking his head. “That’s the problem. You’re trying too much. Most people just _ask _to be friends. It’s not meant to be nearly so difficult—you’re getting in your own way.”

Draco tossed his head, scoffing, “I really don’t want to be lectured on how to make friends by the Boy Who Has His Own Fan Club.” Potter was _swimming_ in sycophants and could pick and choose who he gave his time and attention to. He didn’t think about what it meant that Potter was choosing to give his time and attention, right now, to Draco.

“Hold on now, I thought _I_ was the nitwit here. You know perfectly well who my real friends are, and what they’d do for me. Even if you don’t want to admit it because you’re a stubborn git.” Potter shifted to his feet, and now he was staring down at Draco—who didn’t like that posture one bit. “So you want to be one of them? You’ve got to show me you’re in it. Seriously. You don’t have to magic me—but I’m not just going to give my friendship lightly.”

“What?” Draco sneered, moving to his feet as well and relishing the precious few inches he had on Potter. His prick relished them too, twitching inside his pants. “Want me to make an Unbreakable Vow or something? I’m sure I can scrounge up a Blood Bond as well if you’ll give me a few hours in the Library.”

Potter laughed again, and Draco tried desperately not to get used to it. It was grating and sounded like a sheep. Absolutely intolerable. “No, I think I’m good. Might actually be refreshing having someone around who wouldn’t throw themselves in front of an Unforgivable for me. It can be a bit much sometimes.”

“Well you’ve certainly got nothing to worry about there.” Potter’s lips stretched into an unmistakable grin, infectious; Draco frowned so his lips wouldn’t be tempted to do the same. “…What are you saying?”

“I’m _saying_: if you wanted to ask to be my friend, properly, I might say ‘yes’ this time. Contingent on you meaning it, and not being an arsehole to my other friends.”

Draco turned away, chewing on his nail. “…That could be difficult—being an arsehole to your friends is sort of my _thing_, you know.”

Potter threw up his hands with a huff. “Well then _try_, at least.”

Draco regarded him coolly, taking a step back and narrowing his eyes. “…And what do you get in return for this gesture?”

“Huh?” Potter boggled, blinking several times in rapid succession. “I…I obviously get your friendship back? At least—I assume that’s the bargain?” He made a face. “God, is this what it’s like being friendly with Slytherins? Are you _always _looking for an angle?” 

“Everyone has an angle,” Draco said.

“That’s ridiculous. Everyone doesn’t have an angle.”

Well they ought to, Draco reasoned to himself—it was poor planning not to. He raked Potter with an appraising glance. “Then what the hell are _you_ doing here?”

Potter went scarlet—from his cheeks and nose to his ears and a bit of his chest too, and he sputtered, “This had _nothing_ to do with your failed attempts to get on my good side, rest _well_ assured.”

“I thought it had everything to do with it, actually…” Draco mused. “And if failing to get on your good side gets me fucked through the mattress, I’m not sure my hips could take what succeeding might get me.”

Potter looked like he wanted to sink through the flagstones—and given the girls’ apartments were directly below this floor, Draco didn’t think that was a very good idea. “That was—I was just…” He scrubbed at his face. “I didn’t mean to. I only got carried away and it just—happened.”

“Tripped and fell into my arse, then?”

Potter glowered at him, then gave a guilty shrug. “…I know I shouldn’t have done it. I’ve got no excuse, you’re right.” He fixed Draco with a serious look. “It’s not an _angle _though. If you like, we can—call it a youthful indiscretion. On both our parts.” He drew closer, toes kissing Draco’s, and jutted his chin out. “I’m willing to look past _you_ trying to enchant me into a friendship…as long as you’re willing to look past my, er…taking advantage of your ignorance.” His forehead wrinkled, and he pulled a queasy smile. “I’d say we’re both a bit mad when it comes to each other; I think experience has taught us at least that much.”

Draco was the first to break eye contact, shunting his gaze off to the side. The flagstones were absolutely fascinating in the lowly flickering candlelight. “…And do we have to look past it?” His voice sounded absolutely pathetic, soft and weak and searching. He immediately wanted to claw the words back into his throat.

“Er,” Potter said, eloquent as ever. “Well. I mean, the other option is…is facing it head-on.” He swallowed, throat bobbing. “…We don’t even know each other.”

Draco shrugged, ambivalent. “Don’t have to know each other to fuck. Don’t even really have to like each other.”

“I do,” Potter said, and he seemed to quite mean it. “I have to.”

Draco inclined his head back towards his bed. “Then what exactly were we just doing?”

“That, uh…” Potter gave a wincing smile. “A test run?” The smile slid sideways, going a bit mischievous. “I thought it went pretty good, actually.”

Draco thought it had gone more than ‘pretty good’, for a first time, such as it was—and privately wondered if Day Potter was anywhere near as good a lay as Night Potter had been, or if he was in for a world of disappointment. It was, after all, rather difficult to make an informed decision from a one-off. He drew himself up. “…And what does ‘knowing each other’ entail, precisely?”

“Mm…” Potter tapped his chin, feigning thought. “Well, we could start by being friends, I think. Actual friends. If that was…something you were at all interested in, that is.”

Draco wanted to laugh—and wondered if it was too late to back out of this arrangement. “Think I offered you my hand back in First Year just to fuck with you, do you?”

“Well, no—I thought you did it because you assumed my friendship would make you look good.” He arched a brow. “Not much has changed, evidently.”

Draco took a weak swipe at him, and Potter deftly shifted away from the blow, taking several good steps back and bouncing on the balls of his feet. He looked in entirely too high spirits for someone standing about in his pants. Draco crossed his arms. “And then?”

“Easy,” Potter warned, wagging a finger. “I don’t know that we should be getting too far ahead of ourselves. We don’t even know how this friendship thing will pan out.”

“Oh poppycock—we’ve been cordial for a full fifteen minutes now, no insults whatso—” Potter gave him a _look_. “…With minimal insults. Seems like a promising start.”

And Potter gave him a reluctant smile, nodding. “Well, you do make a good point…”

Draco found himself caught by that smile—so casual, so genuine. Nothing like he’d ever expected—or wanted—from Potter directed his way. And he couldn’t do this—he couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t take this a second time—so he begged. 

“…Don’t bullshit me, Potter—are you quite serious? About—all of this business?”

“Of course,” Potter said, easy as anything, and gave Draco a funny look that suggested he was being very silly, asking something like that. “Aren’t you?”

Draco pinched his lips. “Don’t be thick—”

“I’m not. Remember? Not a Hippogriff.”

Cheeky shit. This was a terrible idea. “You saw the memories,” he said, petulant and bitter, and traced the grout of a flagstone with his big toe. “It’s hardly any great secret, my feelings on the matter.” 

And Potter drew in close again, touching Draco’s wrists and running his fingers along his forearms to rest just at the bony knobs of his elbows. Such an odd thing, but it inexplicably calmed him. “…Yeah, I’m serious,” Potter said, soft and genuine, with a crooked little half-smile. “If there’s one thing this war taught me, it’s that you’ve rarely got as long to live as you might think, so best to make the most of the present and stop worrying so much about the past.” He bobbed his head. “And also that you ought to be prepared for the consequences of what you might see when you go poking your head into a Pensieve.”

Draco didn’t entirely get the reference, but Potter had never been easy for Draco to read, so this was not surprising. “And are you? Prepared?”

Potter scoffed amicably. “Oh, I doubt it.” As if this were something to boast about. “But I’m Harry Potter. When has that stopped me?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥
> 
> This story is part of HD Erised, an on-going anonymous fest. The author will be revealed January 10th.


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